THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIEORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


V 


STATE  NORM^l- SCHo  t, 

'  OS  Angeles  Cal. 


Autumn    Holidays 


OF  A 


COUNTRY  PARSON, 


29579 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 
1884. 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2008  witli  funding  from 

l\/licrosoft  Corporation 


littpV/www.arcliive.org/details/autumnliolidaysofOOboyd 


CONTENTS. 

— • — 

CHAPTER   I. 

PAOk 

Bt  the  Seasidi: 1 

CHAPTER    II. 

CONCERNINO  UnPKUNED  TkEES 19 

CHAPTER   III. 

Concerning  Ugly  Ducks  :  being  some  Thoughts  on  Mis- 
placed Men 86 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Of  the  Sudlen  Sweetening  of  certain  Grapes     .       .      56 

CHAPTER   V. 
Concerning  the  Estimate  of  Human  Beings    ...      76 

CHA  PTER   VI. 
Remembrance 98 

CHAPTER    VII. 

On  the  Forest  Hill  :   with   some  Thoughts  touching 
Dream-Life 109 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

A  Reminiscence  of  the  Old  Time  :  being  some  Thoughts 
on  Going  Away 127 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    IX. 
CONCKRJOITG  Old  Enemies 166 

CHAPTER    X. 

» 

At  the  Castle:  with  some  Thoughts  on  Michael  Scott's 

FaMILIAK  Sl'lKIT -  .     175 

CHAPTER   XI. 

Concerning  the  Right  Tack  :  with  Some  Thoughts  on 

THE  Wkonq  Tack 195 

CHAPTER    XII. 
Concernino  Needless  Fears 220 

CHAPTER    XIII. 
Beaten 238 

CHAPTER    XIV. 
Gossip 244 

CHAPTER    XV. 
Abohbisbop  Whately  on  Bacon 252 

CHAPTER    XVI. 
Some  fuetheb  Talk  adout  Scotch  Affairs     .       .       .    291 

CHAPTER    XVII. 
From  Saturday  to  Monday 827 


CoKCLuaioa 840 


CHAPTER    I. 


BY    THE    SEASIDE. 


E  have  been  here  a  little  more  than  a  week, 
all  of  us  togetlier.  For  if  you  be  a  man  of 
more  than  five-and-thirty  years,  and  if  you 
have  a  wife  and  children,  you  have  doubtless 
found  out  that  the  true  way  to  enjoy  your  autumn  holi- 
days, and  to  be  the  better  lor  them,  is  not  to  go  away  by 
yourself  to  distant  regions  where  you  may  climb  snowy 
Alps  and  travei'se  glaciers,  in  the  selfish  enjoyment  of 
new  scenes  and  faces.  These  things  must  be  left  to 
younger  men,  who  have  not  yet  formed  their  home-ties, 
and  who  know  neither  the  happiness  nor  the  anxieties 
of  human  beings,  who  spread  a  large  surface  on  any 
part  of  which  fortune  may  hit  hard  and  deep.  Let  us 
find  a  quiet  place  where  parents  and  children  may  en- 
joy the  time  of  rest  in  company  ;  where  you  will  be 
free  from  the  apprehensions  of  evil  which  (unless  you 
be  a  very  selfish  person)  you  will  not  escape  when  the 
little  things  are  a  thousand  miles  away.  And,  to  this 
end,  one  may  well  do  without  the  sight  of  lakes,  water- 
falls, streets,  aud  fhurc-hes,  which  it  was  pleasant  once 
on  a  time  to  see.     Upon  this  day,  last  year,  I  ascended 


2  BY    THE    SEASIDE. 

tho  raii-vellous  spire  of  Strasbur;*  Cathedral.  It  was 
the  brightest  of  all  bright  days.  You  went  up  and  up, 
by  little  stairs  winding  through  a  lace-work  of  stone, 
whicli  it  makes  one  somewhat  nervous  to  think  of  even 
now.  till  you  emerged  on  a  ])latforin  whence  you  looked 
down  dizzily  on  the  market-place  hundreds  of  feet  be- 
low ;  upon  the  town,  all  whose  buildings  looked  so 
clean  and  well-defined  in  the  smokeless  air  ;  upon  the 
fertile  level  plain,  stretching  away  towards  Baden  ;  and 
the  ngly  poplars,  marking  the  course  of  the  Rhine.  It 
was  all,  to  an  untravelled  man  and  an  enthusiastic  lover 
of  Gothic  arcliitecture,  interesting  beyond  expression : 
yet  I  would  much  rather  be  here. 

For  this  is  Saturday  morning,  and  my  parish  is  far 
away.  There  is  no  sermon  to  be  thouglit  of  for  to- 
morrow ;  and  no  multitude  of  sick  folk  to  see ;  no  pres- 
sure of  manifold  parochial  cares.  This  is  a  very  ugly 
cottage  by  a  beautiful  shore  ;  and,  through  a  simple  pe- 
cuniary negotiation,  the  cottage  is  ours  for  the  months 
of  August  and  September.  Looking  up  from  this  table, 
and  looking  out  of  the  window,  the  lirst  object  you 
would  see  is  a  shaggy  little  fuchsia,  covered  with  red 
flowers,  waving  about  in  a  warm  western  wind.  Be- 
yond, there  is  a  small  expanse  of  green  grass,  in  which 
I  see,  with  entire  composure,  a  good  many  weeds  which 
would  disquiet  me  much  if  the  grass  were  my  own. 
T  he  little  lawn  is  bounded  by  a  wall  of  rough  stone, 
half  concealed  by  shrubs.  And  on  the  farther  side,  the 
top  of  the  w^all  cutting  sharp  against  it,  weltering  and 
toiling  now  in  shadow,  but  a  minute  ago  bright  in  sun- 
shine, with  the  unnumbered  dimple  of  little  waves, 
spreads   the    sea.     Now  it  has  brightened  again  ;  and 


BY    THE    SEASIDE.  3 

three  gleaming  sails  break  the  deep  blue.  Opposite,  a 
few  miles  off,  there  are  grand  Highland  hills.  Some- 
times they  look  purple ;  sometimes,  light  blue ;  some- 
times the  sunshine  shows  a  yellow  patch  of  cornfield. 
Never,  for  more  than  an  hour  or  two,  do  those  hills  and 
this  sea  look  the  same.  They  are  always  changing ; 
acd  the  changes  are  extreme.  You  could  no  more  tell 
a  stranger  what  this  place  is  like,  by  describing  it  ever 
so  accurately  as  it  is  at  this  moment,  than  you  could 
worthily  represent  the  most  changeful  human  face  by  a 
single  photograph.  In  the  sunset  you  may  often  see 
what  will  make  you  understand  the  imagery  of  the  Rev- 
elation, —  a  sea  of  glass  mingled  witli  fire ;  then  the 
mountains  are  of  a  deep  purple  hue,  sucli  as  you  Avould 
think  exaggerated  if  you  saw  it  in  a  picture.  Hardly 
have  the  crimson  and  golden  lights  faded  from  the 
smooth  water,  Avhen  a  great  moon,  nearly  full,  rises 
above  the  trees  on  this  side,  and  casts  a  long  golden 
path,  flickering  and  heaving ;  the  stillness  is  such  that 
you  fear  to  break  it  by  a  footfall.  Then  there  have 
been  times,  even  within  this  week,  when  drenching 
showers  darkened  the  water  and  hid  the  opjiosite  hills ; 
or  when  white-crested  waves  made  the  sea  into  a  wild, 
ridgy  plain,  and  broke  on  the  shingle  hard  by  in  foam 
and  tlumder. 

This  is  not  a  fashionable  watering-place  ;  you  go  back 
to  a  quiet  and  simple  life,  coming  here.  No  baud  of 
music  plays  upon  the  black  wooden  pier,  where  the  rare 
steamboat  calls  daily.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  gay 
promenade,  frequentol  by  brightly  dressed  people  de- 
sirous to  see  and  to  be  seen.  There  is  no  reading- 
room,  no  billiard-room,  no  circulating  library,  no  iiotel, 


4  BY    THK    SEASIDE. 

no  people  who  let  out  boats,  no  drinking-fountaia. 
There  is  a  post-office  ;  but  it  is  a  mile  distant.  You 
would  find  here  no  more  than  a  line  of  detached  houses, 
a  few  extremely  pretty,  and  more  of  them  extremely 
ugly,  reaching  for  somewhat  more  than  a  mile  along  the 
sea-shoie.  The  houses,  each  with  its  shrubbery  and 
lawn,  greater  or  less,  stand  on  a  strip  of  level  ground 
between  the  sea  and  a  rocky  wall  of  cliff,  which  follows 
tlie  line  of  the  beach  at  no  great  distance  ;  doubtless  an 
ancient  sea  margin.  But  now  it  serves  as  a  beautiful 
background  to  the  pretty  houses,  and  it  almost  redeems 
the  ugly  ones ;  it  is  covered  richly  with  trees,  which 
tlirough  ages  have  rooted  themsehes  in  the  crevices  of 
the  rock  ;  :ind  where  the  perpendicular  wall  forbids  that 
vegetation,  it  is  clothed  with  ivy  so  luxuriant,  that  you 
would  hardly  think  those  hearty  leaves  ever  knew  the 
blighting  salt  spray.  By  the  sea-shore  there  runs  a 
highway ;  the  waves  break  within  a  few  yards  on  a 
beach  of  rough  shingly  gravel.  It  is  to  be  confessed, 
that  this  charming  place  lacks  the  level  sand  which  the 
ebbu)g  tide  leaves  for  a  firm,  cool  walking  space  at  some 
time  of  every  day.  But  your  walks  are  not  confined  to 
the  j)aih  to  right  and  left  along  the  sea-shore.  You  w  ill 
discover  pleasant  ways,  that  lead  to  the  country  above 
the  wooded  and  ivied  cliff;  and  there  3'ou  will  find  ripen- 
ing harvest  fields,  and  paths  that  wind  through  fragrant 
woods  of  birch,  oak,  and  pine,  and  here  and  there  the 
mountain-ash,  with  its  glowing  scarlet  berries.  But  it 
is  not  what  one  understands  by  a  country  side :  the 
whole  landscape  is  gradually,  but  constantly,  sloping 
upwards,  till  it  passes  into  dark  heathery  hills,  solitary  as 
Tadmor  in  the  wilderness.      There   the  sportsman  goes 


BY    THE    SEASIDE.  5 

.n  search  of  grouse  and  deer ;  and  thence  you  have 
views  of  the  level  blue  water  far  below  you,  that  are 
worth  going  many  miles  to  see. 

There  are  places  along  this  seaside  where  your  only 
walk  is  beside  the  sea.  The  hills  rise  almost  from  the 
water,  an  expanse  of  shadeless  heather.  But  we  are 
happier  with  our  shady  woodland  walks.  "When  tlie 
glare  and  heat  are  oppressive  along  the  shore  in  the 
vacant  afternoon,  let  us  turn  away  from  the  road  that 
skirts  the  beach,  up  this  thickly  wooded  glen,  through 
which  a  stream  brawls  from  rock  to  rock,  hardly  seen 
for  the  leaves.  You  will  not  walk  for  a  few  yards  un 
der  the  pleasant  shadow,  till  you  find  yourself  so  envi 
roned  with  ivy-grown  trees,  honeysuckle  and  wild  flow- 
ers, that  you  might  fancy  the  sea  many  miles  off.  And 
the  oppressive  light  and  heat  and  dust  are  gone.  Let 
us  go  on,  following  the  windings  of  the  path  and  tha 
water,  till  we  reach  a  spot  where  a  clear  little  brook, 
tumbling  over  rocks  from  far  above  us,  crosses  the  road 
under  a  rude  arch,  to  join  the  larger  stream;  and  now 
let  us  sit  down  on  a  great  stone,  where  the  little  brook 
close  by  our  feet,  makes  a  leap  into  the  dark  entrance 
of  the  bridge.  Here  let  us  rest  and  be  thankful.  jMany 
people  find  this  a  feverish  world  :  let  us  rejoice  in  a 
nook  so  green  and  quiet.  Ferns  of  many  kinds  covei 
the  damp  rocks :  there  is  a  thick  canopy  of  green  leaves 
overhead,  through  Avliicli  you  may  see  blinks  of  the 
brightest  blue  sky  ;  and  tlirough  which  you  maj^  sec  an 
intense  flickering  of  light,  where  tlie  sun  is  struggling 
to  pierce  the  (hiuse  shade.  The  air  is  fragrant  and  cool 
and  moist :  all  around  there  is  a  thitdcct  of  evergreens 
and  underwood,  over  which  the  tail  ti'uidcs  arise  whose 
spreading  branches  make  our  grateful  shadow. 


6  BY    TIIR    SEASIDK. 

We  have  all,  young  and  old,  wearied  for  this  tinfie ; 
and  here  it  is  at  last.  The  cheerful  anticipation  of  it 
was  something  to  help  one  through  laborious  summer 
days.  For  if  you  are  to  be  in  the  country  no  more 
than  two  months  in  the  year,  the  months  beyond  ques- 
tion should  be  August  and  September.  Let  us  keep 
our  cake  as  long  as  we  can  ;  let  us  make  our  holiday 
season  late.  June  and  July  are  delightful  months  amid 
rural  scenes  ;  but  it  would  be  dismal  to  go  back  to  the 
hot  town  at  the  end  of  July,  and  tiiink  one  had  settled 
down  for  tlie  winter.  But,  at  the  begiiniing  of  October, 
a  little  space  of  long  dark  evening*,  and  the  growing 
crispness  of  the  morning  air,  help  to  make  one  feel 
ready  to  take  with  good  heart  to  the  laboring  oar  again. 

Yet,  though  this  holiday  time  be  so  enjoyed  by  antici- 
pation, I  think  tliat  when  the  day  conies  on  which  you 
preach  to  your  own  congregation  for  the  last  time  be- 
fore leaving,  you  feel  it  rather  a  trial  ;  and  you  turn 
your  back  upon  your  cluirch  witli  some  regret  and  some 
misgiving.  A  clergyman's  work  is  not  like  any  other  ; 
you  have  not  quite  tlie  scliool-boy's  i'eeling  when  work- 
ing days  are  over  mid  holidays  begin.  For  your  woik 
is  not  merely  your  duty,  it  is  your  happiness  too  ;  and 
though  some  folk  may  not  understand  it,  you  feel  it 
something  of  a  ])rivation  to  think  on  a  Sunday  in  your 
I>lay-time  that  the  bells  are  ringing,  and  the  people 
assembling  in  the  familiar  ])lace,  and  you  not  there. 
Ilajjpily,  there  are  regions  in  this  world  wheie  the 
clergyman's  last  Sunday  at  church,  is  likewise  the  last 
Sini<lay  at  cliurcli  of  a  great  part  of  tlie  congriegation. 
It  is  gathered,  as  usual,  one  day  ;  and  the  next,  scat- 
tered far  and  wide,  by  the  seaside  and  among  the  hills. 


BY    THE    SEASIDE.  7 

And  in  this  uncertain  world,  where  when  many  hun- 
dreds of  human  beings  are  in  one  place  to-day,  no  one 
can  say  who  may  be  missing  when  they  meet  after  some 
weeks'  separation,  I  think  that  you,  my  friend,  will 
preach  with  special  kindness  and  heartiness  on  your 
last  Sunday  at  home ;  aii  J  that  you  will  be  heard  with 
special  attention  and  sympathy.  There  will  be  a  very 
perfect  stillness  as  you  pronounce  the  blessing  for  what 
may  be  the  last  time.  And  you  will  well  remember  the 
words  and  the  music  of  the  parting  hymn.  Taking 
your  final  look  round  your  vestry,  and  round  your  emp- 
tied church,  as  you  come  away,  you  will  feel  the  sorrow 
and  anxiety  which  come  of  the  vain  delusion  common 
to  man,  that  the  place  where  you  worked  and  labored 
your  best  will  not  go  on  quite  as  well  in  your  absence. 
Ah,  my  friend,  some  day  you  and  I  must  leave  our  sev- 
eral churches  for  ever  ;  and  though  we  shall  be  kindly 
remembered  and  missed  there  for  a  v/hile,  they  will  come 
by  and  by  to  do  without  us.  And  very  fit  and  right 
too.  We  are  not  such  self-conceited  fools  as  to  wish 
it  were  otherwise.  Yet  it  is  cheering,  each  Tuesday 
morning  through  the  holidays,  when  the  letter  comes  by 
post,  in  which  a  kind  friend,  whom  duty  ties  to  his 
town  work  at  this  season,  tells  how  all  went  well  in  the 
services  of  the  Sunday  before. 

Then,  following  that  parting  day,  comes  one  of  con- 
fusion and  worry  and  latigue,  —  the  day  on  which  the 
family  accomplishes  the  journey  to  the  distant  resting- 
place.  Would  that  the  age  might  come  w  hen  human 
beings  shall  be  able  to  do  without  baggage  !  Yet  even 
baggage  serves  good  moral  ends.  You  are  very  thank- 
ful indeed,  when,  in  the  quiet  evening,  the  cottage,  or 


8  BY    TIIK    SEASIDE. 

the  more  ambitious  (Iwt^llin^f,  is  rcacliod  at  last ;  and 
the  manifold  packing-cases,  boiiig  counted  up,  are  found 
to  be  all  right.  Durins  the  day,  several  times,  you  had 
quite  resigned  yourself  to  the  conviction  that  half  of 
them  would  never  be  found  more. 

There  are  simple  statements  which  may  be  repeated 
many  times,  while  yet  no  wise  man  will  pull  you  up  by 
declaring  that  he  has  heard  tlie  like  before  ;  for  such 
simple  statements  are  the  irrepressible  outflow  of  the 
present  happy  mood  and  feeling.  Yon  could  not  help 
uttering  such,  to  any  one  to  whom  you  might  be  talking 
out  your  heart.  Suffer  me  now  to  declare,  that  there  is 
no  more  precious  blessing  than  rest.  "The  end  of 
work  is  to  enjoy  rest."  "  The  end  and  the  reward  of 
toil  is  rest."  Yes,  it  is  delightful  to  rest  for  a  while 
from  even  the  most  congenial  and  beloved  work.  And 
rest  is  not  merely  deliglitful  ;  it  is  needful.  The  time 
comes  when  the  task  drags  heavily;  when  it  is  got 
through  heartlessly,  and  by  a  painful  effort  often  re- 
newed. Most  busy  men,  busied  with  work  that  wears 
the  brain  and  nervous  system,  have  some  little  time  of 
rest  in  their  daily  round,  —  some  precious  hour  of  quiet. 
There  is  generally  the  short  breathing  space  between 
dinner  and  tea.  But,  as  months  pass,  the  nerves  grow 
so  irritable  that  many  sounds  and  circumstances  worry 
you  ;  then  is  tlie  hour  when  the  organ-grinder  painfully 
thrills  3'ou  through.  At  this  stage,  busy  men  find  the 
relief  of  a  httle  pause,  —  a  day  or  two  away  from  work, 
DO  matter  where.  Arnold  said,  that  the  most  restful  days 
of  the  year  were  those  spent  in  the  long  journeys  by 
coach  between  Rugby  and  Fux  How.     A  very  eminent 


BY    rHE    SEASIDE.  .  » 

and  over-driven  man  lately  told  me,  that  when  he  is  be- 
ing wrought  into  a  fever,  he  finds  rest  by  going  to  Lon- 
don by  the  express  train,  and  returning  the  next  day. 
The  distance  is  four  hundred  miles  going,  and  the  like 
returning,  —  eleven  hours  either  way.  But  it  is  enjoy- 
able to  lean  back  in  the  carriage  ;  to  read  and  to  muse, 
—  sure  that  no  one  will  speak  to  him  on  the  business 
of  his  profession.  1  have  heard  of  a  great  man  who 
found  the  like  relief  in  going  to  bed  for  two  days  or  so. 
There  was  physical  repoge  ;  and  even  the  unreasonable 
caller  and  tormentor,  who  would  utterly  disregard  the 
assurance  that  the  Doctor  was  weary  and  could  see  no 
one,  was  beaten  by  the  assurance  tliat  the  Doctor  was  in 
bed.  For  the  average  human  being,  on  being  told  that 
the  Doctor  could  see  no  one,  would  instantly  say,  "  O, 
but  I  know  he  will  see  me  ! "  But  not  even  these  re- 
treats will  stay  the  gathering  weariness  which  grows  on 
body  and  mind  as  the  seasons  pass.  And  if  you  have 
been  at  work  from  the  beginning  of  October  to  tlie  end 
of  July,  —  ten  months  with  little  relaxation,  —  then  you 
have  fairly  earned  the  autumn  holiday-time.  And  3'our 
rest  will  be  not  merely  the  reward  of  past  work,  but  the 
preparation  for  future.  You  are  laying  up  the  strength, 
spirit,  and  patience  needful  for  the  winter  months,  if 
you  are  to  see  that  time.  And  you  must  act  on  the  cal- 
culation that  you  are  to  see  it.  On  dark  Sunday  after- 
noons in  January,  when  gas  is  lit  throughout  the  church, 
and  snow  lies  in  the  wintry  streets,  you  may  ])reach 
your  sermon  witli  the  greater  lieart  and  vigor  ibr  the 
hours  you  sit  now  on  a  stone  by  the  seaside,  looking  at 
the  waves,  and  for  tlie  bracing  breezes  that  supi)]y  the 
ozone  the  city  lacks.  So  the  diligent  clei-gyman  is  as 
I* 


10  BY    THE    SEASIDE. 

much  in  the  way  of  duty  while  enjoying  his  aiitiim" 
rest  as  wliile  luhilliiig  the  work  of  the  remahider  of  the 
year. 

That  you  may  thoroughly  enjoy  the  autumn  holidays, 
it  is  essential  that  you  should  feel  that  they  have  been 
fairly  earned  by  long  and  hard  work.  You  cannot  feel 
the  delight  of  rest,  unless  by  contrast  with  toil,  hurry, 
and  weariness.  All  this  quiet  and  beaut}',  to  you  and 
me  grateful  as  water  to  the  thirsty,  would  be  to  peoi)le 
who  habitually  live  an  idle  life  no  better  than  some- 
thing insulferalily  dull  tuid  stupid.  Let  us  hope  that 
we  have  faithfiilly  gone  through  the  previous  discipline, 
that  will  make  us  relish  simple  quiet  and  peace.  Some 
])e()ple  think  it  shows  humility  to  say  things  against 
themselves  which  they  know  are  not  true.  They  meek- 
ly confess  sins  of  which  they  are  awai-e  they  are  not 
guilty  ;  saying  what  they  suppose  must  be  true,  instead 
of  what  they  feel  to  be  true.  Let  us  never  do  the  like. 
Few  things  are  more  fatal  to  a  true  and  honest  spirit. 
For  myself,  I  will  say,  without  reserve,  that  in  these 
last  ten  months  I  have  worked  to  the  very  best  of  my 
ability  and  strength  to  fullil  my  duty.  And,  if  not  very 
much  after  all,  1  have  done  what  I  could.  I  can  say 
the  like  ibr  certain  dear  friends  in  my  own  profession. 
They  never  wilfully  neglect  any  work  ;  they  never  see 
any  thing  that  ought  to  be  done,  without  trj'ing  to  do  it. 
Unprofitable  servants,  doubtless,  in  the  sight  of  One 
above  us  ;  but,  at  least,  we  can  look  our  fellow-men  in 
the  face. 

1  suppose,  my  readers,  we  have  all  a  picture  in  our 
minds  of  the  ideal  autumn  holidays.  They  never  havo 
come ;  thev   are   never   to   be.     Yet    we   can  thuik  of 


BY    THE    SEASIDE.  11 

broad  harvest  fields,  golden  in  sunshine  ;  of  magnificent 
trees,  the  growth  of  centuries  ;  of  green  glades,  with  the 
startled  deer;  of  the  gray  Gothic  dwelling,  large  and 
hospitable  ;  of  a  mode  of  life  in  which  sickness,  anxiety, 
vague  fears,  and  pinching  efforts  to  save  shillings,  are 
quite  unknown.  Yes,  it  is  to  be  admitted  that  tliis  ugly 
little  cottage  and  its  surroundings,  physical  and  moral, 
are  no  more  than  a  makeshift.  But  then,  my  friend, 
what  more  is  all  our  life,  and  all  our  lot  ?  "We  must 
make  them  do  ;  we  have  great  reason  to  be  tliankful  for 
things  as  they  are  :  but  all  this  is  not  what  we  used  to 
think  of,  when  we  were  little  children  or  hopeful  youths. 
Let  us  train  ourselves  to  look  at  lights  rather  than 
darks.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  an  eye  for  lights,  and 
such  a  thing  as  an  eye  for  darks.  You  know,  when  you 
look  at  a  grand  Gothic  window^  —  the  eastern  window 
of  a  noble  church  ;  and  when  you  look  at  a  much  smaller 
Gothic  window,  you  may  look  either  at  the  dark  ti'aceiy 
of  stone,  or  at  the  lights  of  gorgeous  storied  glass.  Now, 
in  a  physical  sense,  it  is  well  to  look  at  each  in  turn. 
You  may  behold  a  really  excellent  window  by  tliis, — 
tl)at  the  darks  are  beautiful  in  form,  if  you  fix  your  at- 
tention on  them  only ;  and  the  lights  are  likewise  beau- 
tiful in  form,  if  you  consider  tliem  by  them-elves.  An 
inferior  architect  will  give  you  the  tracery  beautiful,  bui 
the  lights  shapeless  ;  or  the  lights  pretty,  but  the  tracery 
ugly.  But,  tliough  it  is  well  physically  to  have  an  eye 
for  both  darks  and  lights,  it  is  best,  usually,  to  look 
mainly  at  lights,  as  you  contemplate  the  grand  Gothic 
window  of  your  lot  and  of  circumstances.  Vov  many 
people  look  at  the  darks  to  the  exclusion  of  the  lights. 
They  dwell  on  the  worries  of  their  cojidition,  to  the  lor- 


12  BY   THE    SEASIDE 

getfulness  of  its  blessings  and  advantages-  They  con- 
template tlie  smoky  chimney  of  their  dining-room,  to  the 
forgetfulness  of  a  hundred  good  things.  They  try  to  get 
other  people  to  do  the  like.  My  friend  Smith  told  me, 
that,  once  on  a  time,  he  had  Mr.  Jones  to  preach  in  his 
church.  Smith's  church  holds  fifteen  hundred  people, 
and  it  is  perfectly  filled  by  its  congregation ;  of  this  cir- 
cumstance Smith  is  pardonably  proud.  Wiien  Mr. 
Jones  preached,  the  church  was  quite  crowded,  save 
that  three  seats  (not  pews,  seats  for  a  single  person 
each)  were  vacant  in  a  front  gallery.  But  so  keen  was 
Mr.  Jones's  eye  for  darks,  to  the  oblivion  of  lights,  that 
after  service  he  merely  said  to  Smith,  that  he  liad  le- 
marked  three  seats  empty  in  the  gallery.  Not  one 
thought  or  word  had  he  for  the  fourteen  hundred  and 
ninety-seven  seats  that  were  filled.  Smith  was  a  little 
mortified.  But  by  and  by  he  remembered,  that  the  pe- 
culiar disposition  of  Mr.  Jones  was  one  that  would  in- 
flict condign  punishment  upon  itself.  Then  he  was 
sorry,  rather  than  angry.  Yes,  my  friend,  let  us  be 
glad,  if  we  have  an  e}e  i'or  the  lights  of  life,  rather  than 
for  its  darks  ! 

It  is  curi(nis,  how  very  soon  the  burden  drops  from 
one's  back,  when  you  come  for  your  lujlidays  to  some 
place  far  away  from  your  home  and  your  duty.  The 
relief  is  in  direct  j)roportion  to  tlie  distance  in  miles. 
A  hundred  miles  will  sullice  ;  a  thousand  are  better. 
Very  lightly  does  the  care  of  your  parihh  rest  on  you, 
when  the  parish  is  a  tliousand  miles  distant !  Even  a 
tenth  part  of  that  amount  makes  one  feel  as  a  horse 
must,  when  its  harness  is  removed,  and  its  shoes  taken 
off,   and  it  is   turned  out  to  grass.     As  you  put  oa  a 


UY    THE    SEASIDE,  13 

tweed  suit,  and  adopt  a  wide-awake  hat,  you  forget  the 
responsibilities  and  labors  of  past  months  ;  you  cease  to 
be  the  same  man.  The  careful  lines  are  smoothed  out 
of  your  face ;  the  hair  pauses  in  growing  gray.  It  is 
necessary,  indeed,  to  the  true  sense  of  rest,  that  you 
should  have  the  feeling  of  a  good  long  liorizon  of  time 
before  you.  A  few  days  in  the  countiy,  with  the  feel- 
ing that  you  are  just  going  back  to  work,  will  not  do  ; 
the  feverish  pulse  will  keep  by  you.  It  is  quite  a  ditfer- 
ent  thing,  when  you  know  you  liave  several  weeks  in 
prospect.  Then  you  expatiate  ;  then  you  truly  rest. 
Those  good  men  who  remain  within  a  few  miles  of  their 
parish,  and  wiio  go  back  for  each  Sunday's  duty,  do  not 
enjoy  the  feeling  of  the  holiday-time  at  all.  And  feel- 
ing is  the  reality.  It  is  not  what  a  thing  is  in  itself,  but 
how  it  presents  itself  to  you.  You  know  how  different 
a  thing  a  railway-station,  thirty  miles  from  home,  looks 
to  you  when  you  are  to  stop  at  it,  and  when  you  are  to 
go  on  three  hundred  miles  further. 

It  is  pleasant,  and  at  fa-st  a  httle  perplexing,  instead 
of  setting  to  work  after  breakfast,  to  go  forth  and  wan- 
der about  the  shore,  or  sit  on  a  rock  as  long  as  you 
please,  with  the  sense  that  you  are  neglecting  nothing 
that  needs  to  be  done.  You  feel,  as  regards  time,  as  a 
poor  man  who  has  suddenly  inherited  a  large  fortune 
must  feel  towards  money.  Strange,  to  have  so  nnich 
to  spai'e  of  the  thing  of  whicli  before  one  had  so  little ! 
And  how  misty  and  unreal  the  scenes  and  the  life  that 
are  distant  and  past  grow  to  be !  I  cannot  at  this 
minute,  sitting  on  a  warm  stone  by  the  sea  in  the  morn- 
ing sunshine,  feel  that  at  the  entrance  to  a  certain 
square  stands  in  tliis  same  sunshine,  with  a  Utile  shrub- 


14  BY    THE    SEASIDE 

beiy  before  it,  a  rertain  church,  Ionic  as  to  its  front 
elevation,  Tiiiich  the  .writer  well  knows.  It  is  always 
there  when  I  go  back ;  but  I  do  not  know  what  be- 
comes of  it  in  the  mean  while. 

Thei'e  is  nothing  more  certain  than  this,  that  it  will 
not  answer  to  go  to  your  resting-place  to  spend  your 
holiday-time,  without  having  thought  of  what  you  are 
to  do  while  there.  If  the  truth  were  told,  it  would  be 
the  confession  of  many  men,  tliat  the  enjoyment  of  their 
holida}s  was  all  in  tlie  anticipation  and  the  retrospect ; 
and  that  the  holidays  themselves  were  a  very  disap- 
pointing and  tiresome  time,  very  H.-^tless  and  weary. 
All  this  comes  of  their  vaguely  believing  that,  to  enjoy 
the  season  of  rest,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  go  to  some 
quiet,  retired  place,  and  then  some  occupation  will  sug- 
gest itself,  some  mode  of  getting  the  due  enjoyment  out 
of  the  long-expected  time.  A  clergy-man  might  just  as 
wisely  ascend  his  pulpit,  without  having  thought  of  wliat 
he  is  to  say  from  it  of  his  text  and  his  sermon,  and 
count  upon  these  turning  up  at  the  moment  they  are 
needed.  Before  going  to  the  seaside,  you  should  care- 
fully consider  what  you  are  to  do  there,  and  map  out 
some  little  plan  of  lii'u ;  not  adhering  to  it,  of  course, 
should  some  pleasant  deviation  suggest  itself.  And 
every  one  must  devise  such  a  plan  for  himself,  accord- 
ing to  his  own  liking.  Only  let  it  be  remembered,  tha: 
it  will  not  do  to  be  absolutely  vacant.  Time 'will  hang 
heavy ;  and  then  enjoyment  is  at  an  end.  Difl'eient 
men  have  devised  diflerent  modes  of  light  occujiation 
for  their  holiday-time ;  and  that  wluch  suited  one  man 
might  be  most  unsuitable  for  another.  INIr.  Jay.  the 
eminent  Non-conformist  of  Bath,  tells  us  that  it  helped 


BY    THE    SEASIDE.  15 

him  to  thoroughly  enjoy  his  vacation,  to  write  one 
little  sermon  in  the  morning  of  each  day,  and  another 
in  the  evening.  The  sermons  were  certainly  very 
brief;  you  might  read  each  in  five  minutes;  yet  not 
every  preacher  would  have  regarded  it  as  recreation  to 
produce  them.  There  are  very  many  to  whom  sermon- 
writing  does  not  come  so  easily  ;  to  whom  a  sermon  is 
the  thought  of  a  week,  not  the  diversion  of  an  hour. 
Let  it  be  said,  that  Mr.  Jay's  little  sermons  now  fill  four 
volumes,  under  the  title  of  Morning  and  Evening  Exer- 
cises ;  they  provide  a  little  pious  reading  for  the  morn- 
ings and  evenings  of  a  year.  The  writer  is  so  veiy 
warm  a  Churchman,  that  he  seldom  looks  at  the  vol- 
umes without  regretting  that  the  good  man  was  not 
one ;  the  more  so,  as  it  is  plain  that  no  conscientious 
scruple  kept  him  out  of  his  national  church.  Yet,  let 
it  be  said,  that  if  you  read  the  little  discourses  daily,  for 
a  year,  you  will  leave  off  with  a  very  kindly  and  pleas- 
ant impression  of  tlieir  author.  It  is  not  that  any  one 
discourse  is  in  any  way  specially  brilliant,  but  that  all 
are  so  evenly  good  ;  and  they  treat,  in  the  most  ad- 
mirable spirit,  not  the  mattei's  on  which  good  Christians 
differ,  but  those  on  whicli  they  all  agi-ee. 

For  men  to  whom  the  writing  of  sermons  is  not  re- 
laxation, but  rather  work,  yet  whose  likings  are  quiet 
and  scholarly,  certain  rules  may  be  suggested.  In  ad- 
dition to  the  physical  employment  of  mountain  excur- 
Bions,  yachting,  riding,  shooting,  and  the  like,  let  abun- 
dance of  reading  be  provided.  Let  the  2)'nies  daily  tell 
how  the  great  world  goes  ;  let  i)lenty  of  other  news- 
papers come  beside.-!.  Thus  {)Ost-time  will  be  a  fresh 
Bensation,  even  if  very  few  letters  appear,  and  these  of 


16  BY    THE    SEASIDE. 

very  sma!!  interest.  And,  besides  as  many  pleasant 
new  books  as  you  can.  get,  let  there  be  some  large  work, 
of  many  volumes,  read  perhaps  long  ago,  yet  worth 
reading  again,  and  which  cuidd  not  be  read  satisfactorily 
amid  the  pressure  of  working  days  and  months.  And 
weeks  before  you  come  to  the  seaside,  consider  what 
this  book  shall  be.  Mine,  this  year,  is  Lockhart's  Life 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  —  an  admirable  history  of  a  great 
and  good  man.  If  you  have  read  it  as  a  boy,  read  it 
once  more  as  a  man  ;  and  you  will  find  how  well  you 
remember  it.  It  is  a  sad  hi.story,  certainly  ;  and  you 
•will  find  many  things  to  be  thought  of  with  deep  regret : 
yet  you  will  rise  from  it  with  a  hearty  admiration  and 
affection  for  the  greatest  Siotehnian.  And  often,  as 
you  go  on,  you  will  come  on  passaiies  tiiat  will  make 
you  pause  and  muse,  with  the  finger  in  the  half-clused 
book. 

But  the  writers  special  occupation  during  these  holi- 
days is  to  revise  and  consider  the  essays  wiiich  make 
up  this  volume.  lie  has  very  little  time  now  for  writ- 
ing sucli ;  and  the  little  time  is  growing  less.  The 
spare  hours  of  two  years  have  gone  to  the  production  of 
this  little  book.  It  will  always  be  pleasant  to  look  back 
on  time  so  pleasantly  spent.  And  these  chapters  have 
already  met  so  kind  a  recci)tiori,  as  they  appeared  in 
that  dear  old  magazine  in  which  Liie  writer  saw  his 
earliest  article  in  print  and  liis  latest,  and  in  anothci 
magazine  which  professes  to  publish  good  words,  tliough 
some  people  have  declared  it  to  be  a  bad  and  dangerous 
periodical,  that  the  indulgent  reader  may  easily  under- 
stand how  this  volume  has  been  added  to  the  list  of 
certain  which  have  jjone  before.      Let  me  wish  for  tliifl 


BY    THE    SEASIDE.  17 

book,  that  it  may  fall  into  as  kind  hands  as  the  rest,  and 
into  as  many. 

It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  some  occupation,  in  a  time 
and  place  like  this,  which  implies  no  exertion.  It  is 
pleasant  for  a  very  small  author  to  sit  down  on  a  rustic 
seat,  under  a  shady  tree,  or  on  a  rock  by  the  sea,  with 
the  murmuring  water  lapping  at  one's  feet ;  and  there 
peacefully  to  read  over  one's  essay.  A  distinguished 
American  author  has  put  on  record  the  feelings  with 
which  he  read  his  own  first  book.  He  says  frankly, 
"  I  never  read  a  more  interesting  volume ! "  Under 
the  shadow  of  that  illustrious  precedent,  it  may  be  con- 
fessed, that  though,  when  busy  with  serious  work,  you 
have  something  else  to  do  than  to  read  your  own  com- 
positions, yet,  in  a  season  of  leisure,  it  is  light  and 
pleasant  employment  for  an  author  to  do  so.  Some- 
body, once  on  a  time,  sent  me  a  lengthened  and  friendly 
criticism  of  these  essays,  in  which  it  was  yet  mentioned, 
as  a  ground  of. complaint,  that  no  mental  exertion  was 
needful  to  follow  them.  That  is  precisely  what  their 
author  wished ;  and  he  will  be  too  glad  to  think  that  it 
is  so.  He  has  pioneered  the  road,  through  the  jungle 
and  up  the  pass  :  he  trusts  it  is  smooth  and  easy.  Yet 
let  it  be  said,  that  what  is  easy  to  read  is,  for  the  most 
part,  difficult  to  write. 

Let  me  be  allowed  a  closing  word.  TMiy  does  the 
writer  call  himself  a  country  parson^  Years  have 
passed  since  he  left  that  beautiful  green  valley,  with 
the  river,  the  trees,  and  the  hills,  and  went  to  a  great 
city.  But  country  parson  is  the  name  that  suits  him, 
and  the  name  by  which  many  kind  friends  know  him. 
So  he  calls  himself  by  it,  just  as  his  friend  Smith  calls 


IH  BY    THE    SEASIDE. 

himself  Smith.  It  is  not  that  that  individual  is  a  smith 
in  fact ;  but  that  Smith  is  the  name  by  which  people 
have  agreed  to  call  and  know  him.  The  ancestor  who 
first  bore  the  name  was  in  fact  a  smith  ;  and  the  name 
of  Smith  continued  to  l>e  handed  down,  after  the  fact  of 
smith  ceased.  So  let  it  be  with  the  author's  cherished 
designation. 

And  there  is  more.  Though  he  now  does  the  duty 
of  a  parish  in  a  great  city,  it  is  the  city  in  which,  above 
all  others,  country  and  town  are  mingled  in  the  most 
channing  way.  In  the  parish  which  he  serves,  you 
may  even  find  beautiful  shady  walks,  and  expanses 
of  grass  and  flowers,  where  you  might  think  yourself 
far  from  town  smoke  and  bustle;  and  indeed  you  are: 
for  in  that  most  beautiful  of  cities,  there  is  no  smoke 
and  Uttle  bustle.     May  it  be  always  so. 


CHAPTER  II. 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES. 


N  this  writing-table,  here  in  a  great  city, 
there  lie  two  large  pruniug-knives,  unused 
for  five  years.  They  look  inconsistent 
enough  with  the  usual  belongings  of  the 
work-room  of  the  incumbent  of  a  town  parish,  who,  on 
week-days,  walks  about  chiefly  upon  paving-stones,  and 
on  Sundays  preaches  to  city  folks.  But  Britons  know 
that  there  are  institutions  which  the  wise  man  would 
preserve,  though  their  day  and  their  use  have  passed 
away  ;  so  is  it  with  these  knives,  —  buckhorn  as  to  their 
handles,  and  black  with  rust  as  to  their  blades.  The 
writer  will  never  cast  them  away  ;  will  never  lock  them 
up  in  a  drawer  rarely  visited,  degrading  them  from  the 
prominent  and  easily  reached  spot  where  they  lay  iu 
years  tliat  are  gone.  Never  again,  in  all  likelihood, 
will  those  knives  be  used  by  the  hand  that  was  wont  to 
use  them ;  yet  they  serve  their  owner  well  when  they 
bring  back  the  pleasant  picture  of  days  when  he  was  a 
country  parson,  and  pruned  many  shrubs  and  trees; 
walking  about  leisurely  in  the  enjoyment  of  t^nippingofF, 
as  a  schoolmaster  of  my  youth  was  accustomed  to  wiUk 


20  CONCERNING    UNl'KUXKD    TREES. 

down  the  roAvs  of  boys,  busy  in  writing,  here  and  there 
coming  down  with  a  heavy  lash  on  some  unlucky  back, 
merely  for  his  own  recreation,  and  with  no  moral  aim. 
Yes,  there  is  a  tranquil  delight  in  pruning  ;  to  a  simple 
and  unfevered  mind,  it  is  a  very  fascinating  pursuit. 
And  it  is  a  good  sign  of  a  man,  if  he  finds  pleasure  in  it. 
Alas,  we  outgrow  the  days  in  which  it  makes  us  happy 
to  prune  trees ! 

The  reader,  who  is  given  to  pruning,  knows  how  very 
much  some  trees  need  it.  You  know  how  horribly 
awkward  and  ugly  an  old  bay  becomes,  after  it  has  been 
untended  for  years.  It  has  great  bi-anches  which  stick 
out  most  ungracefully.  And  it  is  likely  enough  that 
the  whole  tree  is  so  inextricably  grown  into  that  un- 
gainly form,  that  it  is  best  to  saw  it  off  about  three  or 
four  feet  from  the  ground,  and  to  let  it  begin  to  grow 
anew.  Thus,  starting  afresh,  you  may  be  able  to  make 
it  a  pretty  and  graceful  object,  though  of  much  dimin- 
ished size.  Tliere  are  trees  whose  nature  is  such  that 
they  can  do  with  little  or  no  pruning.  They  don't  need 
to  be  watched  ;  they  cost  no  trouble.  Such  is  a  Portu- 
gal laurel ;  such  is  a  weeping  birch  ;  such  is  a  beech  ; 
such  is  an  oak.  But  not  such  is  an  Irish  yew  ;  not  such 
is  an  apple-tree,  nor  any  kind  of  fruit-tree.  Aiid  in  the 
days  wlien  you  were  the  possessor  of  trees,  and  were 
sometimes  a  good  deal  worried  by  the  charge  of  them,  I 
know  you  often  thouirht  what  a  blessing  it  is  that  tiiere 
arc  some  that  need  no  pruning;  some  that,  once  put  in 
their  place,  you  may  let  alone.  For  there  were  some 
that  needed  ceaseless  tending ;  they  grew  horrible,  un- 
less you  were  alwuys  watching  them,  and  cutthig  off  this 
and  that  little  shoot  that  was  growing  in  a  wrong  diiec- 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.        21 

tioD.  It  was  an  awful  thing,  standing  beside  some  tree 
that  had  given  you  a  great  amount  of  trouble,  to  think 
what  it  would  come  to  if  it  were  just  left  to  itself. 

Most  human  beings  /are  very  like  the  latter  order  of 
trees;  they) need  a  great  deal  of  pruning.  Little  odd 
habits,  the  rudiments  of  worse  habits,  need  every  now 
and  then  to  be  cut  off  and  corrected.  We  should  all 
grow  very  singular,  ridiculous,  and  unaraiable  creatures, 
but  for  the  pruning  we  have  got  from  hands  kind  and 
unkind,  from  our  earliest  days  ;  but  for  the  pruning  we 
are  getting  from  such  liands  yet.  Perhaps  you  have 
known  a  man  who  had  lived  for  forty  years  alone.  And 
you  know  what  odd  shoots  he  had  sent  out ;  what 
strange  traits  and  habits  he  had  acquired ;  what  singu- 
lar little  ways  he  had  got  into.  There  had  been  no  one 
at  home  to  prune  him  ;  and  the  little  shoots  of  eccentri- 
city, of  vanity,  of  vain  self-estimation,  that  might  have 
easily  been  cut  off  when  they  were  green  and  soft,  have 
now  grown  into  rigidity.  Woody  fibre  has  been  devel- 
oped ;  and  if  you  were  to  try  to  cut  off  the  oddity  now, 
it  would  be  like  trying  to  lop  off  a  tough  oak  branch  a 
foot  thick  with  a  penknife.  You  cannot  do  it ;  if  you 
were  to  succeed  in  doing  it,  you  would  thereby  change 
the  whole  man.  Equally  grown  into  rigid  awkward- 
ness with  tlie  man  who  has  lived  a  very  solitary  life, 
the  man  is  likely  to  be,  who,  for  many  years,  has  been 
the  pope  of  a  little  circle  of  admiring  disciples,  no  one 
of  whom  would  ever  contradict  him,  no  one  of  whom 
would  ever  venture  to  say  he  judged  or  did  wrong.  In 
such  a  case,  not  merely  are  the  angularities,  the  odd,  un- 
gainly shoots,  not  cut  off;  they  arc  actually  fostered. 
And  a  really  good  man  grows  into  a  bundle  of  awk- 


22        CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES. 

wardnesses  and  oddities,  and  stiffens  hopelessly  into 
these.  And  these  greatly  lessen  his  influence  and  use- 
fulness with  people  who  do  not  know  his  real  excellen- 
ces. You  cannot  read  the  life  of  IMr.  Simeon,  of  Cam- 
bridge, without  lamenting  that  there  was  not  some  kind 
yet  firm  hand  always  near  him,  to  prune  off  tlie 
wretched  little  shoots  of  self-conceit  and  silliness  which 
obscured,  in  great  measure,  the  sterling  qualities  of  tlie 
man.  You  may  remember  reading  how,  on  an  occa- 
sion on  which  some  good  ladies  had  collected  pieces  of 
needle-work  to  bo  sold  for  a  missionary  purjjose,  he 
came  to  behold  tliem.  He  skipped  into  the  room,  held 
up  his  hands  in  a  theatrical  ecstasy  of  admiration,  and 
went  through  various  ungainly  gambols,  and  uttered 
various  wretched  jokes,  by  way  of  compliment  to  the 
good  ladies.  I  don't  tell  you  the  story  at  length  ;  it  is 
too  humiliating.  Now  do  you  think  the  good  man 
would  ever  have  done  this,  had  he  lived  among  people 
who  durst  question  his  iniallibility  luid  impeccability  ? 
What  a  blessing  it  would  have  been  for  liim  had  there 
been  some  one  on  such  terms  with  him  that  he  could 
say,  "  Now,  Simeon,  dear  fellow,  don't  malie  a  fool  of 
yourself! " 

It  is  at  once  apparent,  that  when  some  really  kind 
and  judicious  friend,  or  even  some  judicious  person  who 
is  not  a  kind  friend,  says  to  you,  as  you  are  saying 
something,  "  Smith,  you're  talking  nonsense ;  shut  up, 
and  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,"  this  fact  is  highly 
analogous  to  the  fact  of  a  keen  pruning-knife  snipping 
off  a  shoot  that  is  growing  in  a  wrong  direction.  And 
you  may  have  seen  a  good  man,  accustomed  to  dwell 
among  those  who  never  dared  to  differ  from  him,  look 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.        23 

as  if  the  world,  were  suddenly  coming  to  an  end,  when 
some  courageous  person  said  to  his  face  what  many  per- 
sons had  frequently  said  behind  his  back  ;  to  wit,  that 
he  was  talking  nonsense.  You  may  find  a  house  here 
and  there  in  which  the  gray  mare  is  the  more  energetic, 
if  not  the  better  horse ;  where  the  husband  has  been 
constrained  by  years  of  outrageous  ill-temper  to  give 
the  wife  her  own  way ;  and  where,  accordingly,  the 
mistress  of  the  house  has  lived  for  thirty  years  without 
once  being  told  she  did  wrong.  The  tree,  that  is,  had 
never  been  pi'uned  in  all  that  time  ;  and  you  may  im- 
agine what  an  ugly  and  disagreeable  tree  it  had  grown. 
For  people  who  get  their  own  way  have  nothing  to 
repress  their  evil  and  ridiculous  tendencies,  except  their 
own  sense  of  propriety ;  and  I  have  little  faith  in  the 
practical  guidance  of  that  sense,  unless  it  be  reinforced 
and  directed  by  the  moral  and  jESthetic  sense  of  other 
people.  A  tree,  when  pruned,  suffers  in  silence  ;  no 
doubt,  it  cannot  like  being  pruned  ;  it  would  like  to 
have  its  own  way.  But  the  pruning  of  a  human  being, 
accustomed  to  his  or  her  own  way,  is  often  accompanied 
by  much  moral  kicking  and  howling.  Such  a  person, 
in  those  years  without  pruning,  has  very  likely  got  con- 
firmed in  many  ridiculous  and  disagreeable  habits  ;  has 
learned  to  sit  witli  his  feet  upon  the  mantle-jjiece ;  has 
come  to  use  ungrammatical  and  ugly  forms  of  speech ; 
has  grown  into  rubbing  his  nose,  or  twirling  his  thumbs, 
or  making  pills  of  paper  while  conversing  with  others. 
Indeed  there  is  no  reckoning  the  ugly  growths  into 
wliich  unpruned  human  nature  will  develop  itself;  and 
self-conceited  and  haughty  and  petted  folk  deliberately 
deprive  themselves  of  tliat  salutary  tending  and  pruning 


24  CONCERNINO    UNl'RUNED    TREES. 

which  is  needful  to  keep  them  in  decent  shape.  There 
was  once  ii  man,  who  was  much  jjiven  to  advocating  the 
admission  of  fresh  air  ;  an  excellent  end.  But,  of  course, 
in  advocating  it,  the  word  ventilation  had  frequently 
to  be  used ;  and  that  man  made  himself  ridiculous  in  the 
eyes  of  all  educated  people  by  invariably  pronouncing 
the  word  as  ventidation.  For  a  long  time,  a  youthful 
relative  of  that  man  suffered  in  silence  the  terrible  an- 
noyance of  listenino;  to  tlie  word  thus  rendered ;  and 
there  are  few  more  irritating  things  among  the  minor 
vexatious  of  life  than  to  be  compelled  habitually  to 
listen  to  some  vulgar  and  illiterate  error  in  speech. 
Perhaps  you  have  felt  a  burning  desire  to  prune  a  per- 
son, who  talked  of  some  trouble  being  tremenduous  ;  or 
who  said,  he  would  rather  go  to  Jericho  as  hear  Dr. 
Log  preach ;  or  who  declared,  the  day  to  be  that  hot 
that  he  was  nearly  killed.  Oh,  the  thought  of  such  ex- 
pressions makes  one's  nerves  tingle,  and  one's  hand 
steal  towards  the  pruning-knife.  But  after  long  en- 
durance, the  youthftil  relative  of  the  man  who  talked 
about  ventidation  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  ven- 
tured humbly  to  suggest  that  ventilation  was  the  pref- 
erable way  of  setting  forth  the  word.  Ah,  the  tree  did 
not  take  the  pruning  peaceably  !  Wasn't  there  an  ex- 
plosion of  vanity  and  spite  and  stupidity  ?  Was  not 
the  youthful  individual  scorched  with  furious  sarcasm, 
for  pretending  to  know  better  than  his  seniors,  and  for 
venturing  to  think  that  his  betters  could  go  wrong! 
From  that  day  forward,  he  resolved  tliat  however  hide- 
ous the  shoots  of  ignorance  and  conceit  his  seniors  put 
forth,  lie  would  not  venture  to  correct  them.  For  there 
is  nothing  that  so   infuriates    an   uneducated  and  self- 


CONCERNING    UNPRUNED    TREES.  25 

sufficient  man  of  more  than  middle  age,  as  the  faintest 
and  best-disguised  attempt  to  prune  him.  "  Are  you 
sure  that  your  data  is  correct  ?  "  said  a  vulgar  rich  man 
to  an  educated  poor  man.  "  Data  are  correct,  I  think 
you  mean,"  said  the  poor  man  (rather  hastily),  before 
going  on  to  answer  the  question.  The  rich  man's  face 
reddened  like  an  infuriated  turkey-cock;  and  had  there 
been  a  cudgel  in  his  hand,  he  would  have  beaten  the 
pruner  upon  the  head.  Yes;  it  is  thankless  work  to 
wield  the  moral  pruning-knife. 

Probably  among  the  class  of  old  bachelors  you  may 
find  the  most  signal  instances  of  the  evil  consequence 
of  going  through  life  with  nobody  to  prune  one.  I 
could  easily  record  such  manifestations  of  silliness  and 
absurdity  in  the  case  of  such  men  as  would  be  incredi- 
ble. Of  course  I  am  not  going  to  do  so.  An  old  bach- 
elor of  some  standing,  living  in  a  solitary  house,  with 
servants  who  dare  not  prune  him,  and  with  acquahit- 
ances  who  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  prune  him,  must 
necessarily,  unless  he  be  a  very  wise  and  good  man, 
gi'ovv  into  a  most  amorphous  shape.  I  beg  the  reader 
to  mark  the  exception  I  make :  for  I  presume  he  will 
agree  with  me  when  I  say,  that  in  the  class  of  old  bach- 
elors and  old  maids  may  be  found  some  of  the  noblest 
specimens  of  the  human  race.  A  judicious  wife  is 
always  snipping  off  from  her  husband's  moral  nature  lit- 
tle twigs  that  are  growing  in  wrong  directions.  Sho 
keeps  him  in  shape,  by  continual  pruning.  If  you  say 
anything  silly,  she  will  affectionately  tell  you  so.  If  you 
declare  that  you  will  do  some  absurd  thing,  she  will  tind 
means  of  preventing  your  doing  it.  And  by  far  the 
chief  part  of  all  the  common  sense  there  is  in  this  world 
2 


26  CONCERNING   UNPliUNED   TREES. 

belongs  unquestionably  to  women.  The  wisest  thing  a 
man  commonly  does  are  those  which  his  wife  counsels 
him  to  do.  It  is  not  always  ^o.  You  may  have  known 
a  man  do,  at  the  instigation  of  his  wife,  things  so  mali- 
cious, petty,  and  stupid,  that  it  is  inconceivable  any  man 
should  ever  do  them  at  all.  But  such  cases  are  excep- 
tional. 

My  friend  Jones,  when  a  boy  of  fourteen,  went  to 
visit  a  relative,  a  rich  old  bachelor.  Tiiat  relative  was 
substantially  a  very  kind  person ;  that  is,  he  gave 
Jones  lots  of  money,  and  the  like.  But  Jones,  an  ob- 
servant lad,  speedily  took  his  relative's  measure.  The 
first  evening  Jones  was  with  him,  the  old  bachelor  said, 
in  a  very  cordial  way,  "  Now,  Tom,  my  boy,  it  is  my 
duty  to  tell  you  something.  You  have  been  trained  up 
to  believe  that  your  father  "  (a  clergyman)  "  is  an  able 
and  dignified  person.  It  is  right  that  you  should  know 
that  he  is  a  very  poor  stick." 

Jones  listened,  without  remark,  but  with  rather  a 
scared  face.  It  was  a  trial  to  the  young  fellow.  It 
was  a  shock  to  his  belief  in  things  in  general,  to  hear 
his  father  thus  spoken  of.  And  Jones,  who  is  now  a 
man,  tells  me  that  though  he  said  nothing,  he  inwardly 
groaned,  looking  at  his  wealthy  relative.  "  You  're  a 
horrid  old  fool."  And  in  all  the  years  that  have  passed 
since  then,  Jones  assures  me  he  has  not  in  the  least 
modified  that  early  opinion. 

Now,  don't  you  feel  that  no  married  man  would  have 
so  behaved  ?  Even  if  he  were  such  an  ass  as  to  begin 
to  say  such  a  thing  to  a  little  boy,  don't  you  feel  his  wife 
(if  present)  would  have  taken  care  that  the  sentence 
was  never  finished  ? 


CONCERNING    UNPRUXED   TREES.  27 

The  same  person  began  to  tell  Jones  about  the  opera ; 
and  all  of"  a  sudden,  to  the  lad's  consternation,  he  burst 
out  into  some  avvlul  roars.  Jones  was  terrified.  He 
tliought  his  relative  had  gone  mad,  or  was  suddenly 
seized  by  some  unusual  and  terrible  disease.  But  the  old 
gentleman  said,  with  great  seir-complaienoy. '"  That 's  just 
GO  give  you  some  idea  what  the  luunan  voice  is  capable 
ol!  "  Jones  secretly  thought  that  it  gave  him  some  idea 
what  a  fool  an  old  gentleman  miglit  make  of  himself. 

1  have  heard  of  an  extremely  connnonplace  man,  who 
lived  an  utterly  solitary  life  in  London.  lie  had  gaine-d 
considerable  wealth  :  but  he  had  nothing  else  to  stand 
on  ;  and  he  was  not  rich  enough  to  stand  on  that  alone. 
The  worthy  man  has  been  in  his  grave  for  many  years. 
Having  heard  that  Mr.  Urown  had  stated  that  he  did 
not  know  him,  he  exclaimed  :  "  He  does  not  know  mk  ! 
Well,  tliere  is  no  act  of  Parliament  to  make  peojde  know 
about  me.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  if  he  does  not  know 
about  me,  he  is  an  ill-inlbrmed  man  !  "  This  was  not  a 
joke.  It  was  said  in  bitter  earnest.  For  when  a  young 
fellow  who  was  ])resent  showed  a  tendency  to  smile  at 
this  outburst  of  self-conceit  nursed  in  solitude,  the  young 
fellow  was  furiously  ordered  out  of  tlie  room. 

Doubtless  you  have  i-emarked,  with  satisfaction,  how 
the  little  oddities  of  men  who  marry  rather  late  in  life 
are  pruned  away  speedily  alter  their  marriage.  You 
have  found  a  man  who  u.-ed  lo  be  shabbily  and  carelessly 
dressed,  with  a  huge  shirt-collar  1'. aycd  at.  the  edges, 
and  a  glaring  yellow  silk  ])ocket  haiidkerchief,  broken 
of  these  things,  and  become  a  jiattern  of  neatness.  You 
have  seen  a  man  whose  hair  and  whiskers  were  riilic- 
uiously    cut    speedily    beconift   like     other    human    be- 


28  coNCKiixiNG  uxi'i:l\\i:d  ti:i:i:s. 

incs.  Yon  have  seen  a  clerirvman,  wlio  wore  a  lone 
beard,  in  a  little  while  appear  witiiout  one.  Yon  have 
seen  a  man,  who  nsed  to  sing  i-idicnlous,  sentimental 
son^s,  leave  them  off.  You  have  seen  a  innn  wlio 
♦ook  snuff  copiou.-ly,  and  who  generally  had  his  breast 
covered  with  snuff,  abandon  the  vile  habit.  A  wile 
is  the  grand  wielder  oi"  the  moral  jtruniiig-kiiite.  It" 
•Johnson's  wife  had  lived,  there  would  have  be<Mi  no 
hoarding  up  of  bits  of  orange  j)eel,  no  touching  all  the 
posts  in  walking  along  the  street,  no  eating  and  drink- 
ing with  a  disgusting  voracity.  If  Oliver  Goldsmith 
had  been  married,  he  would  never  have  worn  that  mem- 
orable and  ridiculous  coat.  Whenever  you  find  a  man 
whom  you  know  little  about,  oddly  dressed,  or  talking 
absurdly,  or  exhibiting  any  eccentricity  of  manner,  you 
may  be  tolerably  .•-ure  that  he  is  not  a  married  man. 
For  the  little  corners  are  rounded  off,  the  little  shoots 
are  prune<l  away,  in  married  men.  Wives  generally 
have  much  more  sense  than  tlieir  husbands,  especially 
when  the  husbands  are  clever  men.  The  wife's  advices 
are  like  the  l)allast  that  keeps  the  ship  steady.  Tli-y 
are  like  the  wholesome  though  ))ainful  shears,  snipping 
off  little  growths  of  self-conceit  and  folly. 

80  you  may  see,  that  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  1  i; 
alone.  For  he  will  put  out  various  shoots  at  his  own 
sour  will,  which  v>ill  gi-ow  into  monstrously  ugly  and 
absurd  branche  ,  unless  they  are  pruned  away  while  tlu'V 
are  young.  But  it  is  quite  as  bad,  perha[)S  it  is  worse, 
to  live  among  people  with  whom  you  are  an  oracle 
Thee  are  many  good  Protestants  who  by  a  L^ng  co:i- 
tinuance  of  such  a  life,  have  come  to  believe  their  own 
infallilnlity  uuich   mure  strongly  than  the  pope  believes 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.        29 

his.  An  only  brother  amid  a  large  family  of  sisters  is 
in  a  perilous  position.  There  is  a  risk  of  his  coming  to 
thii)k  liimself  the  greatest,  wisest,  and  best  of  men ;  the 
most  graceful  dancer,  the  most  melodious  singer,  the 
sweetest  poet,  the  most  unerring  shot ;  also  the  best- 
dressed  man,  and  tlie  possessor  of  the  most  beautiful 
hands,  feet,  e^es,  and  whiskers.  And  as  the  outer  world 
is  sure  not  to  accept  this  estimate,  the  only  brother  is 
apt  to  be  soured  by  the  sharp  contrast  between  the 
adulation  at  home  and  the  snubbing  abroad.  A  popular 
clergyman,  with  a  congregation  somewhat  lacking  in  in- 
telligence, is  exposed  to  a  jirejudicial  moral  atmosphere. 
It  is  a  dreadful  sight  to  see  some  clergymen  surrounded 
by  the  members  of  their  flock.  You  see  them,  with 
dilated  nostrils,  inhaling  the  incense  directly  and  indi- 
rectly oflered.  It  irritates  one  to  hear  such  a  person 
spoken  of  (as  I  have  heard  in  my  youth)  as  "  the  dear 
man,"  "  the  precious  man,"  or  even,  in  some  cases,  "  the 
sweet  man."  It  is  a  great  deal  too  much  for  average 
human  nature  to  live  among  peoj)le  who  agree  with  all 
one  says,  and  think  it  very  fine.  "We  all  need  "  the 
animated  No  "  ;  a  forest  tree  will  not  grow  up  healthily 
and  strong  unless  you  let  the  rude  blasts  wrestle  with  it 
and  root  it  firmer.  It  is  insufferable  when  any  mortal 
lives  in  a  moral  hot-house.  And  if  there  be  anything 
for  which  a  clergyman  ought  to  be  thankful,  it  is  if  his 
congregation,  though  duly  esteeming  him  for  his  office 
and  for  his  work,  have  so  much  good  sense  as  to  refrain 
from  spoiling  him  by  deferring  unduly  to  all  his  crotch- 
ets. Let  there  be  as  few  worsted  slippers  as  possible 
sent  him ;  no  bouquets  laid  on  his  study  table  by  youth- 
ful hands  before  he  comes  down  stairs  in  the  morning ; 


so  CONCERNING   UNPRUNED  TREES. 

no  young  women  preserving  under  a  glass  shade  the 
glove  they  wore  in.  shaking  hands  with  him,  that  it  may 
be  profaned  by  no  inferior  touch.  Let  the  phrase  dear 
man  be  utterly  excluded.  A  manly  person  does  not 
want  to  be  made  a  pet  of.  And  if  there  be  any  occasion 
on  whicli  a  man  of  sense,  bishop  or  not,  ought  to  be 
filled  with  shame  and  confusion,  it  is  when  man  or 
woman  kneels  down  and  asks  his  blessing.  Pray,  how 
much  is  the  blessing  worth  ?  What  good  will  it  do 
anybody  ?  Most  educated  men  have  a  very  decided 
estimate  of  its  value,  which  would  be  expres-ed  in  fig- 
ures by  a  round  0. 

One  great  good  of  a  great  public  school  is  the  way 
in  which  the  moral  pruning-knife  is  wielded  there.  I 
do  not  mean  by  the  masters,  but  by  the  republic  of 
boys.  Many  a  lad  of  rank  and  fortune,  in  whom  the 
evil  shoots  of  arrogance,  self-conceit,  contempt  for  his 
fellow  creatures,  and  a  notion  that  he  himself  is  the 
mightiest  of  mortals,  have  been  fostered  at  home  by  the 
adulation  of  servants,  and  cottagers,  and  tenantry,  lias 
these  evil  shoots  effectually  shred  away.  You  have 
heard,  of  course,  how  the  Duke  of  Middlesex  and 
Southwark  came  to  his  title  as  a  baby,  and  grew  up 
under  the  care  of  obsequious  tutors  and  governors  till 
he  had  attained  the  age  to  go  to  school.  The  first  even- 
ing he  was  tliere,  he  was  standing  at  a  corner  of  the 
playground,  with  a  supercilious  air,  surveying  the  sports 
that  were  proceeding.  A  boy  about  liis  own  size  per- 
ceived him,  and  running  up,  said,  with  some  curiosity, 
"  Who  are  you  ? "  "  The  Duke  of  Middle-ex  and 
Southwark,"  was  the  reply.  "  Oh,"  said  the  other  boy, 
with   awakened    interest,    "there's   one    kick   for   the 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.  31 

Duke  of  Middlesex  and  another  for  the  Duke  of  South- 
"wark";  and  having  thus  delivered  himself,  he  ran  away. 
0,  what  a  sharp  pair  of  shears  in  that  moment  pruned 
off  certain  shoots  which  had  been  growing  in  that  little 
peer's  nature  ever  since  the  dawn  of  intelligence !  The 
awful  yet  salutary  truth  was  impressed,  by  a  single  les- 
son, that  there  were  places  in  this  world  where  nobody 
cared  for  the  Duke  of  Middlesex  and  Southwark.  And 
perhaps  that  painful  ^iruning  was  the  beginning  of  the 
discipline  which  made  tliat  duke,  as  long  as  he  lived, 
the  most  unpretending,  admirable,  and  truly  noble  of 
men. 

There  are  few  people  in  public  life  who  in  this  age 
are  not  promptly  pruned,  where  needful,  by  ever-ready 
sheai's.  If  the  shoots  of  bumptiousness  appear  in  a 
chief  justice,  they,  are  instantly  cut  short  by  the  tongue 
of  some  resolute  barrister.  If  a  jjrime  minister,  or 
even  a  loftier  personage,  evinces  a  disposition  to  neglect 
his  or  her  duty,  that  disposition  is  speedily  pruned  by 
the  Times;  speaking  in  the  name  of  the  general  sense 
of  what  is  fit.  And  indeed  the  newspapers  and  reviews 
are  the  universal  sliears.  If  any  outgrowth  of  folly, 
error,  or  conceit  appear  in  a  political  man,  or  in  a 
writer  of  even  moderate  standing,  some  clever  article 
comes  down  upon  it,  and  shows  it  up  if  it  cannot  snij) 
it  off.  And  if  a  wise  man  desires  that  he  may  keep, 
intellectually  and  aesthetically,  in  becoming  shape,  he  will 
attentively  consider  whatever  may  be  said  or  written 
about  him  by  people  who  dislike  him.  For,  as  a 
general  rule,  people  who  don't  like  you  come  down 
sharply  upon  your  real  faults ;  they  tell  you  things 
which  it  is  very  fit  tliat  you  should  know,   and  which 


32  CONCERNING   UNPRUNED  TREES. 

nobod}'  is  likely  to  tell  you  but  them.  I  have  heard  of 
one  or  two  distinguished  authors  who  made  it  a  rule 
never  to  read  anything  that  was  written  about  them- 
selves. Probably  they  erred  in  this.  They  missed 
many  hints  for  which  they  might  have  been  the  better. 
And  mannerisms  and  eccentricities  developed  into  rigid 
bouglis,  which  might  have  been  readily  removed  as 
growing  twigs. 

A  vain  self-confidence  is  very  likely  to  grow  up  in  a 
man  who  is  never  subjected  to  the  moral  pruiiing-knife. 
The  greatest  men  (in  their  own  judgment)  that  you 
have  ever  known  have  probably  been  the  magnates  of 
some  little  village,  far  from  neighbors.  Probably  the 
bully  is  never  developed  more  offensively  than  in  some 
village  dealer,  who  has  accumulated  a  good  deal  of 
money,  and  who  has  got  a  number  of  the  surrounding 
cottages  mortgaged  to  him.  Such  is  the  man  who  is 
likely  to  insult  the  conservative  candidate,  when  he 
comes  to  make  a  speech  before  an  election.  Such  is 
the  man  to  lead  the  opposition  to  any  good  work  pro- 
posed by  the  parish  clergyman.  Such  is  the  man  to 
become  a  church-rate  martyr,  or  an  especially  oflcnsivd 
manager  of  Salem  chapel.  Such  is  the  kind  of  man 
who,  if  he  has  children  growing  up,  will  refuse  to  let 
them  express  their  opinion  on  any  subject.  A  parent 
(;an  fall  into  no  greater  mistake  than  to  take  the  ground 
that  lie  will  never  argue  with  his  children,  nor  hear 
what  they  may  have  to  suggest  in  opjjosition  to  any 
])lan  he  may  have  proposed.  For  children  very  speed- 
ily take  the  measure  of  their  parents ;  and  have  a  j)er- 
fectly  clear  idea  how  far  their  :il)ility,  judgment,  and 
education  justify  their  assuming  the  rank  of  iufaUible 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.        33 

oracles.  And  it  is  infinitely  better  to  let  a  lad  of  eigh- 
teen speak  out  his  mind,  than  to  have  him  like  a  boiler 
ready  to  burst  with  repressed  views  and  leeluigs,  and 
with  the  bitter  sense  of  a  petty  and  contemptible  tyran- 
ny. Something  has  already  been  said  of  women  who 
acquire  the  chief  power  in  their  own  houses ;  whose 
husbands  are  cowed  into  ciphers;  and  whose  infalli- 
bility is  to  be  recognized  throughout  the  establishment, 
under  pain  of  some  ferocious  explosion.  At  last,  some 
son  grows  up,  and  resists  the  established  despotism. 
Infallibility  and  impeccability  are  conceded  no  longer. 
And  the  thick  branches,  consolidated  by  many  years' 
growth,  are  lopped  off  painfully,  which  should  have 
gone  when  they  were  slender  shoots,  liely  upon  it,  the 
man  or  woman  who  refuses  to  be  peaceably  and  kindly 
pruned,  will  some  day  have  to  bear  being  rudely  lopped. 
There  is  one  shoot  which  human  nature  keeps  put- 
ting forth  again,  however  frequently  it  is  pruned  away. 
It  is  self-conceit.  TJiat  would  grow  into  a  terrible  un- 
wieldy branch,  if  it  were  not  so  often  shred  away  by 
circumstances;  that  is,  by  God's  providence.  Every- 
body needs  to  be  frequently  taken  down  ;  which  means, 
to  have  his  self-conceit  pruned  away.  And  what  every- 
body needs,  most  people  (in  this  case)  get.  Most  peo- 
ple are  very  frecjuently  taken  down. 

I  mean,  even  modest  and  sensible  people.  This 
wretched  little  shoot  keeps  growing  again,  however 
hard  we  try  to  keep  it  down.  There  is  a  tendency  in 
each  of  us  to  be  growing  up  into  a  higher  opinion  of 
ourself ;  and  then,  :ill  of  a  sudden,  that  higher  estim^ite 
is  cut  down  to  the  very  earth.  You  are  hke  a  ^lep 
suddenly  showi :  a  thick  lieece  of  .self-complacencyliad 
2*  o 


\ 


'vA 


34  CONCERNING   UNPEUNED   TREES. 

developed  itself;  something  comes  and  all  at  once 
shears  it  off,  and  leaves  you  shivering  in  the  frosty  air. 
You  are  like  a  lawn,  where  the  grass  iiad  grown  some 
inches  in  length,  till  some  dewy  morning  it  is  mown 
just  as  close  as  may  be.  You  had  gradually  and  insen- 
sibly come  to  think  rather  well  of  yourself  and  your 
doings.  You  had  grown  to  think  your  position  in  life 
a  rather  respectable  or  even  eminent  one,  and  to  fancy 
that  those  around  estimated  you  rather  highly.  But  all 
of  a  sudden,  some  slight,  some  mortification,  some  disap- 
pointment comes  ;  something  is  said  or  done  that  shows 
you  how  far  you  have  been  deceiving  yourself.  »Some 
considerable  place  in  your  profession  becomes  vacant, 
and  nobody  thinks  of  naming  you  for  it.  You  are  in 
company  with  two  or  three  men  who  think  themselves 
specially  charged  with  finding  a  suitable  person  for  the 
vacant  oilice :  they  name  a  score  of  possible  people  to 
till  it,  but  not  you.  They  never  have  tiiought  of  you  : 
or  possibly  they  refrain  from  naming  you,  with  the  de- 
sign of  mortifying  you.  And  so  you  are  pruned  close. 
For  the  moment,  it  is  painful.  You  are  ready  to  sink 
down,  disheartened  and  beaten.  You  have  no  energy 
to  do  anything.  You  sit  down  blankly  by  tiie  fire,  and 
acknowledge  yourself  a  failure  in  life.  It  is  not  so 
much  that  you  are  beaten,  as  that  you  are  set  in  a  lower 
place  than  you  hoped.  Yet  it  is  all  good  for  us,  doubt- 
less. Few  men  can  say  they  are  too  humble  with  it  all. 
And  as  even  after  all  our  mowings,  prunings,  and 
shearings,  we  are  sometimes  so  conceited  and  self-satis- 
fied ,«^  we  are,  what  should  we  have  been  had  tho^^o 
thirigs  "not  befallen  us?  The  elf-locks  of  wool  would 
have  been  feet  in  length.     The  grass  would  have  been 


1 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES. 

six  feet  high,  like  that  of  the  prairies.  And  the  shoot 
of  vanity  would  have  grown  and  consolidated  into  a 
branch,  that  would  have  given  a  lopsided  aspect  to  the 
whole  tree. 

Happily,  there  is  no  chance  of  these  things  occurring. 
We  seldom  grow  for  more  than  a  few  days,  without  be- 
ing pruned,  mown,  and  shorn  afresh.  And  all  this  will 
continue  to  the  end.  It  is  not  pleasant;  but  we  need  it 
all.  And  we  are  all  profiting  by  it.  Possibly  no  one 
will  read  this  page,  who  does  not  know  that  he  thinks 
more  humbly  of  himself  now  than  he  did  ten  years 
since ;  and  ten  j-ears  hence,  if  we  live,  we  shall  think 
of  ourselves  more  humbly  still. 

Yes :  we  have  all  been  severely  pruned,  in  many 
ways.  Perhaps  our  sprays  and  blossoms  have  been 
shred  away  by  a  knife  so  unsparing,  that  we  are  cut 
very  much  into  the  form  of  a  pollarded  tree.  Perhaps 
we  have  been  pruned  too  mucli,  and  the  spring  and  the 
nonsense  taken  out  of  us  only  too  effectually.  Certain 
awkward  knots  arc  left  in  the  wood,  where  some  cher- 
ished hope  was  snipjjcd  off  by  the  fatal  shears,  or  some 
youthful  affection  (in  the  case  of  sentimental  people) 
came  to  nothing;  and  it  was  like  cutting  a  tree  over, 
not  f;ir  above  the  roots,  when  a  man  was  made  to  feel 
that  his  entire  aim  in  life  was  no  better  than  a  dismal 
failure.  But  it  was  all  for  the  best ;  and  defeat,  bravely 
borne,  is  the  noblest  of  victories.  What  an  overbear- 
ing, insolent  person  you  would  have  been,  if  you  had 
always  got  your  own  way,  if  your  boyish  fancies  had 
come  true !  What  an  odd  stick  you  would  have  be- 
come, had  you  been  one  of  the  Un pruned  Trees  ! 


rES^ 


CHAPTER    III. 

CONCERNING    UGLY    DUCKS  :    BEING    S0M15 
THOUGHTS   ON   MISPLACED   MEN. 


OME  men's  geese,  it  has  occcasionally  beeo 
said,  are  all  swans.  Dr.  Newman  declares 
tliat  this  was  so  with  the  great  Arclibishop 
Whately  of  Dublin.  Read  this  page,  intel- 
ligent person ;  and  you  shall  be  informed  about  an  Ugly 
Duck,  and  what  it  proved  in  truth  to  be. 

Rather,  you  shall  be  reminded  of  what  you  doubt- 
less know  already.  The  story  is  not  mine :  it  was 
originally  devised  by  somebody  much  wtser  and  possibly 
somewhat  better.  I  propose  to  do  no  more  than  tell 
afresh  and  briefly  what  has  been  told  at  much  greater 
length  before.  No  doubt  it  has  touched  and  comforted 
many  to  read  it.  For  there  may  be  much  wisdom  and 
great  consolation  in  a  fairy  tale. 

Amid  a  family  of  little  ducks,  there  was  one  very 
big,  ugly,  and  awkward.  lie  looked  so  odd  and  un- 
couth, that  those  who  beheld  him  generally  felt  that  he 
wanted  a  thrashing.  And  in  truth,  he  frequently  got 
one.  He  was  bitten,  pushed  about,  and  laughed  at  b^ 
all  the  ducks,  and  even  by  the  hens,  of  the  house  to 
which  he  belonged.     Thus  the  poor  creature  was  quite 


THOUGHTS   ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  37 

cast  down  under  the  depressing  sense  of  his  ugliness  ; 
and  the  members  of  his  own  family  used  him  worst  of 
all.  He  ran  away  from  home,  and  lived  for  a  while  in 
a  cottage  with  a  cat  and  an  old  woman.  Here,  likewise, 
he  failed  to  be  appreciated.  For  chancing  to  tell  them 
how  he  liked  to  dive  under  the  water  and  feel  it  closing 
over  his  head,  they  laughed  at  him,  and  said  he  was  a 
fool.  All  he  could  say  in  reply  was,  "  You  can't  under- 
stand me !  "  "  Not  imderstand  you,  indeed,"  they  re- 
plied in  wrath,  and  thrashed  him. 

But  he  gradually  grew  older  and  stronger.  One  day 
he  saw  at  a  distance  certain  beautiful  birds,  snow-white, 
with  magnificent  wings.  Impelled  by  something  within 
him,  he  .could  not  but  Hy  towards  them,  though  expect- 
ing to  be  repulsed  and  perhaps  killed  for  his  presump- 
tion. But  suddenly  looking  into  the  lake  below  him, 
he  beheld  not  the  old  ugly  reflection,  but  something 
large,  white,  graceful.  The  beautiful  birds  hailed  him 
as  a  companion.  The  stupid  people  had  thought  him 
an  ugly  duck,  because  he  was  too  good  for  them.  They 
could  not  understand  him,  nor  see  the  great  promise 
of  that  uncouth  aspect.  The  ugly  duck  proved  to  be  a 
Swan ! 

He  was  not  proud,  that  wise  bird  ;  but  he  was  very 
happy.  Now,  everybody  said  he  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  all  beautiful  birds ;  and  he  remembered  how, 
once  upon  a  time,  everybody  had  laughed  at  him  and 
thrashed  him.  Yes :  he  was  appreciated  at  his  true 
value  at  last ! 

Possibly,  my  friendly  reader,  you  have  known  vari- 
ous Ugly  Ducks,  —  men  who  were  held  in  little  esteem, 
because  they  were  too  good  for  the  peojjle  among  wliom 


88  CONCERNING   UGLY  DUCKS: 

they  lived,  —  men  who  were  held  in  little  esteem,  be- 
cause it  needed  more  wit  than  those  around  them  pos- 
sessed to  discern  the  makings  of  great  and  good  things 
under  their  first  unpromising  aspect.  When  John  Fos- 
ter, many  years  ago,  preaching  to  little  pragmatic  com- 
munities of  uneducated,  stupid,  and  self-conceited  sec- 
taries, was  declared  by  old  women  and  young  whipper- 
snappers,  to  be  A  PKUFECT  FOOL,  he  was  an  Ugly 
Duck  of  tlie  first  kind.  When  Keats  published  his 
earliest  poetry,  and  when  INIr.  Giffbrd  bitterly  showed 
up  all  its  extravagance  and  mawldshness,  and  jjositively 
refused  to  discern  under  all  that  the  faculties  which 
would  be  matured  and  tamed  into  those  of  a  true  poet, 
Keats  was  an  Ugly  Duck  of  the  second  kind.  John 
Foster  was  esteemed  an  Ugly  Duck  at  the  time  when 
he  actually  was  a  Swan,  because  the  people  who  esti- 
mated him  were  such  blockheads  that  they  did  not 
know  a  swan  when  they  saw  one.  Keats  was  esteemed 
an  Ugly  Duck,  because  he  really  was  an  awkward, 
shambling,  odd  animal  ;  and  his  critic  had  not  patience, 
or  had  not  insight,  to  discern  something  about  liim  that 
promised  lie  would  yet  grow  into  that  whicli  a  mere 
Duck  could  never  be.  For  tlie  creature  which  is  by 
nature  a  Swan,  and  which  will  some  day  be  known  for 
such  by  all,  may  in  truth  be,  at  an  early  stage  in  its 
development,  an  uglier,  more  offensive,  more  ini])udent 
and  forward,  more  a\vkwai-d  and  more  insufferable  ani- 
mal, than  the  creature  which  is  by  nature  a  Duck,  and 
Avhich  will  never  be  taken  for  anything  more. 

Yes,  many  men,  with  the  gift  of  genius  in  them,  and 
many  more,  with  no  gift  of  genius  but  with  a  little  more 
industry  and  ability  than  their  fellows,  are  regarded  as 


THOUGHTS   ON   MISPLACED   JIEN.  39 

little  better  than  fools  by  the  people  among  whom  they 
live ;  more  especially  if  they  live  in  remote  places  in 
the  country,  or  in  little  country  towns.  Some  day,  the 
Swans  acknowledge  the  Ugly  Duck  for  their  kinsman : 
and  then  all  the  quacking  tribe  around  him  recognize 
him  as  a  Swan.  Possibly,  indeed,  even  then,  some  of 
the  neighboring  ducks  who  knew  him  all  his  life,  and 
accordingly  held  him  cheap  till  the  world  fixed  his 
mark,  will  still  insist  that  he  is  no  more  than  an  ex- 
tremely Ugly  Duck,  whom  people  (maiidy  out  of  spite 
against  the  ducks  who  were  his  early  acquaintances) 
persist  in  absurdly  calling  a  Swan.  I  have  beheld  a 
Duck  absolutely  foam  at  tlie  mouth,  when  I  said  some- 
thing implying  that  another  bird  (whose  name  you 
would  know  if  I  mentioned  it)  was  a  Swan.  For  the 
Duck,  at  college,  had  been  a  contemporary  of  the 
Swan :  he  had  even  played  at  marbles  with  the  Swan, 
in  boyhood  ;  and  so,  tliough  the  Swan  was  quite  fixed 
as  being  a  Swan,  the  Duck  never  could  bear  to  recog- 
nize him  as  such.  On  the  contrary,  he  held  him  as  an 
overrated,  impudent,  putse-proud,  conceited,  disagree- 
able, and  hideously  Ugly  Duck.  I  remembei',  too,  a 
very  venomous  and  malicious  old  Duck,  who  never  had 
done  anything  but  quack  (in  an  envious  and  unchari- 
table way  too)  througli  all  the  years  which  made  him 
very  old  and  exceedingly  tough,  giving  an  account  of 
the  extravagances  and  bombastic  flights  of  a  young 
Swan.  The  Duck  vilely  exaggerated  tlie  sayings  of 
that  youthful  Swan.  He  put  into  the  Swan's  mouth 
words  which  the  Swan  had  never  uttered,  and  ascribed 
to  the  Swan  sentiments  (of  a  heretical  character)  which 
he   very   well    knew    the    Swan    abhorred.     But    even 


40  CONCERNING   UGLY   DUCKS: 

upon  the  Duck's  own  showing,  there  was  the  promise 
of  something  line  about  the  injudicious  and  warm- 
hearted young  Swan ;  and  a  little  candor  and  a  little 
honesty  might  have  acknowledged  this.  And  it  ap- 
peared to  me  a  poor  sight  to  behold  the  ancient  Duck, 
witli  all  his  feathers  turned  the  wrong  way  with  spite, 
standing  beside  a  dirty  puddle,  and  stretching  his  neck, 
and  gobbling  and  quacking  out  his  impotent  malice,  as 
the  beautiful  Swan  sailed  gracefully  overhead,  perfectly 
unaware  of  the  malignity  he  was  exciting  in  tlie  muscle 
which  served  the  Duck  lor  a  heart. 

It  makes  me  ferocious,  I  confess  it,  to  hear  a  Duck,  or 
a  company  of  Ducks,  abusing  and  vilifying  a  Swan  ; 
and  a  good  many  Ducks  have  a  tendency  so  to  do.  If 
you  ask  one  of  very  many  Ducks,  "  AV'hat  kind  of  a  bird 
is  A?"  (A  being  a  Swan),  the  answer  will  be,  "Oh,  a 
very  Ugly  Duck  ! "  If  the  present  writer  had  the  faint- 
est pretension  to  be  esteemed  a  Swan,  he  would  not  say 
this.  But  he  knows  very  well  indeed  that  he  can  pre- 
tend to  no  more  than  to  plod  humbly  and  laboriously 
along  upon  the  earth,  while  other  creatures  sail  through 
the  empyrean,  lie  has  seen,  with  wonder,  several  ill- 
natured  attacks  upon  himself  in  print,  the  gravamen  of 
the  charge  against  him  being  that  he  does  not  and  can- 
not write  like  A,  B,  and  C,  who  are  great  geniuses. 
Pray,  Mr.  Snarling,  did  he  ever  pretend  to  write  like 
A,  B,  and  C  ?  No  ;  he  pretends  to  nothing  more  than 
to  produce  a  homely  material  (with  something  real 
about  it)  that  may  suit  Iiomely  folk.  And  so  long  as  a 
great  number  of  people  are  content  to  read  what  he  is 
able  to  write,  you  may  rely  upon  it  he  will  go  on  writ- 
ing     As  for  you,  Mr.  Snarling,  of  course  you  can  write 


THOUGHTS   ON  MISPLACED   MEN.  41 

like  A,  B,  and  C.  And  in  that  case,  your  obvious  course 
is  to  proceed  to  do  so.  And  when  you  do  so,  you  may 
be  sure  of  this  ;  that  the  present  writer  will  never  twist 
nor  misrepresent  your  words,  nor  tell  lies  to  your  pre- 
judice. 

It  is  a  curious  and  interesting  spectacle  to  witness 
two  Ducks  discussing  tlie  merits  of  a  Swan.  I  have 
known  a  Duck  attack  a  Swan  in  print.  The  Swan  was 
an  author.  The  Duck  attacked  the  Swan  on  the  ground 
that  his  style  wanted  elegance.  And  I  assure  you  the 
attack,  for  want  of  elegance  of  style,  was  made  in  lan- 
guage not  decently  grammatical.  You  may  have  heai'd 
a  Duck  attack  a  Swan  in  conversation.  The  Swan  was 
a  pretty  girl.  The  charge  was  that  the  Swan's  taste  in 
dress  was  bad.  You  looked  at  the  Duck,  and  were 
aware  that  the  Duck's  taste  was  execrable.  Would 
that  we  could  "  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us  !  "  Then 
you  would  no  longer  see  such  sights  as  this,  which  we 
may  have  witnessed  in  our  youth.  Two  Ducks  viciously 
abusing  a  Swan,  flying  by ;  and  pointing  out  that  the 
Swan  liad  lost  an  eye,  also  a  foot ;  and  with  wearisome 
iteration  dwelling  on  those  enormities.  And  when  you 
looked  carefully  at  the  spiteful  creatures,  wagging  their 
heads  together,  hissing  and  quacking,  you  were  aware 
that  (strange  to  say)  each  of  tlieni  had  but  one  foot  and 
one  eye,  and  that,  in  short,  in  every  respect  in  which 
the  Swan  was  bad,  the  Ducks  were  about  fifty  times 
worse.  Thus  you  may  have  known  a  very  small  and 
shabby  Duck,  who  scoffed  at  a  noble  Swan,  because  (as 
he  said)  the  Swan  had  no  logic.  Yet  whenever  that 
Duck  himself  attempted  to  argue  any  question,  he  had 
but  one  course,  which  was  scandalously  to  misrepresent 


42  CONCERNING    UGLY   DUCKS: 

aud  distort  something  said  by  the  man  maintaining  the 
other  opinion,  and  then  to  try  to  raise  against  tliat  man 
a  howl  of  heresy.  Not  indeed  that  that  man,  or  any 
one  of  liis  friends,  cared  a  brass  farthing  for  what  the 
shabby  little  Duck  thought  or  said  of  liira.  Yet  the 
Duck  showed  all  the  will  to  be  a  viper,  though  nature 
had  constrained  him  to  abide  a  Duck.  And  this  was 
the  Duck's  peculiar  logic. 

At  this  point  the  reader  may  pause,  and  ponder  what 
has  been  said.  If  exhausted  by  the  mental  effort  of 
attention,  he  may  take  a  glass  of  wine.  And  then  he 
is  requested  to  observe,  that  the  writer  considers  him- 
self to  have  made  but  one  step  in  advance  since  he 
finished  the  legend  of  the  Ugly  Duck,  with  which  the 
present  work  commenced.  That  step  in  advance  was 
to  the  principle : 

That  some  men  are  held  in  little  estima- 
tion BECAUSE  TIIEY  ARE  TOO  GOOD   FOR  THE   PEOPLE 

AMONG  WHOM  THEY  LIVE.     These  are  my  misplaced 

MEN. 

Of  course,  not  all  misplaced  men  are  what  I  under- 
stand by  Ugly  Ducks.  For  there  are  men  who  arc 
misplaced  by  being  put  in  places  a  great  deal  too  good 
for  them.  You  may  have  known  individuals  who  could 
not  open  their  mouths  but  you  heard  the  unmistakable 
qaach-quack,  who  yet  gave  tliemselves  all  the  airs  of 
Swans.  And  probal)ly  a  good  many  people  honestly 
took  them  for  Swans,  and  other  people,  prudent,  safe, 
and  somewhat  sneaky  people,  pretended  tiiat  they  took 
them  for  Swans,  while  in  fact  they  did  not.  And  when 
perspicacious  persons  privately  whispered  to  one  anoth- 
er, "  That  fellow   Stuckup  is  only  a  duck,"  it  was  be- 


THOUGHTS   ON   MISPLACED   jn:N.  43 

cause  in  fact  he  was  no  more.  Yet  Stuckiip  did  not 
think  himself  so.  I  have  not  seen  many  remarkable 
human  beings,  hut  I  have  studied  a  few  with  attention  ; 
and  I  can  say,  with  sincerity,  that  the  peculiar  animal 
known  as  the  Begriar  on  Horseback  is  by  far  the  great- 
est and  most  important  human  being  I  have  ever  known. 
Probably,  my  reader,  you  still  hold  your  breath  with 
awe,  as  you  remember  your  first  admission  to  the  pres- 
ence of  a  person  whom  you  saw  to  be  on  horseback,  but 
did  not  know  to  be  a  beggar  who  had  attained  that  emi- 
nence. You  afterwards  learned  the  fixct ;  and  then  you 
wondered  you  did  not  see  it  sooner.  For  now  the  beg- 
gar's dignity  appeared  to  you  to  bear  the  like  relation 
to  that  of  the  true  man  in  such  a  place,  that  the  strut 
of  a  king,  with  a  tinsel  crown,  in  a  booth  at  a  fair,  btars 
to  the  quiet,  assured  air  of  Queen  Victoria,  walking  into 
the  House  of  Lords  to  open  Parliament. 

It  is  an  unspeakable  blessin;^  (or  a  man,  that  he  should 
be  put  down  among  people  who  can  understand  him. 
For  no  matter  whether  a  man  is  thought  a  fool  by  his 
neighbors  because  he  is  too  good  for  them,  or  because  he 
is  realy  a  fool,  the  depressing  effect  upon  his  own  mind  is 
the  same ;  unless  indeed  he  have  the  confidence  which 
we  miglit  suppose  would  have  gone  with  the  head  and 
heart  of  Sliakespeare,  if  Shakespeare  appreciated  him- 
self justly.  Very  likely  he  did  not.  John  Foster,  great 
man  as  he  was,  could  not  have  liked  to  see  the  little 
meeting-houses  at  which  he  held  forth  gradually  getting 
empty,  as  the  people  of  the  congregation  went  off  to 
some  fluent  blockhead  with  powerful  lungs  and  a  vacuous 
head.  For  many  a  day  Archhishoj)  Whately  of  Dublin 
was  a  misplaced  man  ;  feared  and  suspected  just  bc^cause 


44  CONCERNING   UGLY   DUCKS: 

that  clear  liead  and  noble  heart  were  so  high  above  the 
sympatliy  or  even  the  cornpreliension  of  many  of  those 
over  wliom  he  was  set.  A  bhter  little  t^ectary  would 
have  been  at  first  an  infinitely  more  popular  prelate ; 
and  the  writer  cannot  refrain  from  saying  with  what 
delight,  but  a  few  months  before  that  great  man  died,  he 
saw,  by  the  enthusiastic  reception  which  the  arciibi-hop 
met,  rising  to  make  a  short  speech  at  a  public  meeting 
in  Dublin  of  three  thousand  people,  that  justice  was 
done  him  at  last.  He  had  found  the  place  which  wa^ 
his  due.  They  knew  the  n()l)le  Swan  they  had  got,  and 
knew  that  the  honor  he  derived  from  the  archiepiscopal 
throne  was  as  a  sand-grain  when  compaied  wilh  the 
honor  which  he  reflected  on  it.  Yet  he  found  the  time 
hard  to  bear,  when  he  was  undervalued  because  he  was 
too  good  ;  when  men  vilified  him  because  they  could  not 
understand  him.  '•!  have  tried  to  look  as  if  I  did  not  feel 
it,"  he  said  ;  •'  but  it  has  shortened  my  life.^'  Whereas 
our  friend  Carper,  who  for  ten  years  past  has  held  an 
eminent  place  for  which  he  is  about  as  fit  as  a  cow,  and 
which  he  has  made  ridiculous  through  his  incompetence, 
—  the  wrong  man  in  the  wrong  place,  if  such  a  thing 
ever  w;is,  —  is  entirely  pleased  with  himself,  and  will 
never  have  his  life  shortened  by  any  considei-ation  of  iiis 
outrageous  incapacity.  Tiiere  were  years  of  Arnold's 
life  at  Rugby  during  which  he  was  an  unappreciated 
man,  just  because  he  rose  so  higli  above  tlie  ordinary 
standard.  If  the  sun  were  something  new.  and  if  you 
showed  it  for  the  first  time  to  a  company  of  l)lear-eyed 
men,  they  would  doubtless  say  it  was  a  most  disagreeable 
object.  And  if  there  were  no  peojjle  of  thoughtful  hearts 
and  of  refined  culture   in  the  world,  the  author  of  In 


THOUGHTS   ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  45 

Memoriam  would  no  doubt  pass  among  mankind  for  a 
fool.  There  are  people  who,  through  a  large  part  of 
their  life,  are  above  the  high-water-mark  of  popular 
appreciation.  Wordsworth  was  so.  He  needed  "  an 
audience  fit";  and  it  for  many  a  day  was  "few."  The 
popular  taste  had  to  be  educated  into  caring  ior  him.  It 
was  as  if  you  had  commanded  a  band  of  childi-en  to 
drink  bitter  ale  and  to  like  it.  Even  Jeffrey  could 
write,  "This  will  never  do!"  And  you  miss  peo- 
ple as  completely  by  shooting  over  their  heads  as  by 
hitting  the  ground  a  dozen  yards  on  this  side  of 
them.  A  donkey,  in  all  honesty,  prefers  thistles  to 
pine-apple.  Yet  the  poor  pine-apple  is  ready  to  feel 
aggrieved. 

This  mi-judging  of  people,  because  they  rise  above  the 
sphere  of  your  judgment,  begins  early  and  lasts  late.  I 
liave  known  a  clever  boy,  under  the  authority  of  a 
tyrannical  and  imcultivated  governor,  who  was  savagely 
bullied  and  ignoininiously  ordered  out  of  the  room,  be- 
cause he  declared  that  he  admired  the  Hartleap  Well. 
His  governor  declared  tiiat  he  was  a  tool,  a  lalse  pre- 
tender, a  villain.  His  governor  sketched  his  luture 
career  by  declaring  that  he  would  be  hanged  in  this 
world,  and  sent  to  perdition  in  tlie  next.  All  this  was 
because  he  possessed  faculties  wliich  his  unculiivated 
tyrant  did  not  possess.  Ii.  was  as  if  a  stone-deaf  man 
s'.iould  torture  a  lover  of  music  because  lie  ventured  Xa 
mainUiin  that  there  is  such  a  tliuig  as  sound.  It  was  as 
if  a  man  who<e  musical  taste  was  educated  up  to  the 
point  of  admiring  the  Ratcatcher  s  Daughter  >hould 
vilipend  and  suspend  by  hemp  a  human  being  who 
should    declare    there    was    sometiiing    beyond    that    in 


46  CONCERNING   UGLY  DUCKS: 

Beethoven  and  ]Meiidel-.-ohn.  And  I  believe  that  very 
oi'ten  tboiiLrliifiil  little  children  are  subjected  to  the 
gieat  trial  of  being  brought  up  in  a  house  where  they 
are  utterly  misunderstood  by  guardians  and  even  by 
parents  quite  unequal  to  understanding  thera ;  and  this 
has  a  very  souring  ((feet  on  the  little  heart.  Tiiere  are 
boys  and  giils  living  under  their  fathers'  roof,  who  in 
their  deepest  thoughts  are  as  tliorouglily  alone  as  if  they 
dwelt  at  Tadmor  in  the  Wilderness.  There  are  ciiildren 
who  would  sooner  go  and  tell  their  donkey  what  was 
most  in  their  mind  than  they  would  tell  it  to  their 
father  or  their  mother.  In  ^ome  cases,  the  lark  of 
[)0\ver  to  understand  or  appreciate  becomes  still  more 
marked  as  childhood  advances  to  maturity.  You  may 
have  known  a  man  recognized  by  the  world  as  a  very 
wise  man  for  expressing  to  tlie  world  the  sejf-same 
views  and  oinnions  whose  expression  had  caused  hira  to 
be  adjudged  a  fool  at  home.  '*  Do  you  know,  Charlotte 
has  written  a  book ;  and  it 's  better  than  likely " :  was  aU 
the  father  of  its  author  had  to  say  about  Jane  Eyre. 
What  a  picture  of  a  searing,  bligliling  home  atmosphere! 
You  cannot  read  the  story  without  thinking  of  ever- 
greens crisping  up  under  a  withering  east  wind  of  three 
weeks'  duration.  And  I  could  point  to  a  country  in 
Africa  where  men,  who  would  be  recognized  as  great 
men  elsewhere,  are  thought  very  little  of,  because  tlicre 
is  hardly  anybody  who  can  appreciate  them  and  their 
attainmen;s.  I  have  known  there  an  accomplished 
echoLar,  who  in  the  neighboring  kingdom  of  Biafra  would 
be  made  a  clcfrag  (corresponding  to  our  bisho])),  who, 
livinof  where  he  does,  when  spoken  of  at  all,  is  usually 
spoken  of  contemptuously  as  a  domlnie  ;  corresponding 


THOUGHTS   ON   MISPLACED  MEN.  47 

to  our  schoolmaster  or  college  tutor,  but  the  undignified 
way  of  stating  the  (act.  Such  a  man  is  a  great  Gi-eek 
,-cholar ;  but  if  he  dwell  among  Africans,  avIio  know 
nothing  earthly  about  Greek,  and  who  care  even  less  for 
it,  what  does  it  profit  him  ?  Alas,  for  that  misplaced 
man  !  Thought  an  Ugly  Duck  because  he  lives  at 
Heliopolis ;  while  four  hundred  miles  ofF,  in  the  great 
University  of  Biafra,  he  would  be  hailed  as  a  noble 
Swan  by  kindred  Swans  ! 

Almost  the  only  order  of  educated  men  who  have  it 
not  in  their  power  to  live  among  educated  folk  are  the 
clergy.  Almost  all  other  cultivated  men  may  choose 
for  their  daily  companions  people  like  themselves.  But 
in  the  Church,  you  have  doubtless  known  innumerable 
instances  in  whicli  men  of  very  high  culture  were  set 
down  in  remote  rural  districts,  where  tliere  was  not  a 
soul  with  whom  tliey  had  a  thought  in  common  within 
a  dozen  miles.  It  is  all  right,  of  course,  in  that  broader 
sense  in  which  everything  is  so ;  and  doubtless  the 
cure  of  souls,  however  rude  and  ignorant,  is  a  work 
worthy  of  the  best  human  heart  and  head  that  God  ever 
made.  Still  it  is  sad  to  see  a  razor  somewhat  in- 
efficiently cutting  a  block,  for  which  a  great  axe  with 
a  notched  edge  is  the  right  thing.  It  is  sad  to  see  a 
cultivated,  sensitive  man  in  the  kind  of  parish  wliere 
I  have  several  times  seen  such.  You  may  be  able  to 
think  of  one,  an  elegant  scholar,  a  profound  theologian, 
a  man  of  most  refined  taste,  taken  unhapjiily  from  the 
common-room  of  a  college,  and  set  down  in  a  cold 
upland  district,  where  there  were  no  trees  and  where 
the  wind  almost  invariably  blew  from  tiie  east ;  among 
people  with  high  cheek-bones  and  dried-up  complexions, 


48  CONCERNING   UGLY  DUCKS: 

of  radical  polities  and  dissenting  tendencies,  dense  in 
ignorance  and  stupidity,  and  impregnable  in  self-con- 
fidence and  self-conceit,  and  just  as  capable  of  appre- 
ciating their  clergyman's  graceful  genius  as  an  eqnal 
number  of  codfisli  would  be.  And  what  was  a  yet 
more  melancholy  sight  than  even  the  sight  of  the  first 
inconsistency  between  the  man  and  his  place  was  the 
sight  of  the  way  in  which  the  man,  year  by  year,  de- 
generated till  he  grew  just  the  man  for  the  place,  and 
only  a  middling  man  for  it.  Yes,  it  was  miserable  to 
see  how  the  Swan  gradually  degenerated  into  an  Ugly 
Duck  ;  how  his  views  got  morbid,  and  his  temper 
ungenial ;  how  his  accomplishments  rusted,  and  his 
conversational  j)Owers  died  through  utter  lack  of  exer- 
cise ;  till  after  a  good  many  years  you  beheld  him  a 
soured,  wrong-headed,  cantankerous,  petty,  disapfidintcd 
man.  For  luck  was  against  him;  and  he  had  no  prospect 
but  that  of  remaining  in  the  bleak  upland  pai'ish,  swept 
by  the  east  wind,  as  long  as  he  might  live.  And  after  a 
little  while,  he  ceased  entirely  to  go  back  to  the  university 
where  lie  would  have  found  fit  associates ;  and  he  grew 
so  disagreeable  tiiat  liis  old  friends  did  not  care  to  visit 
him,  and  listen  to  liis  ninaniiig.  Now,  you  raiuiot  long 
kecj)  nuich  above  what  you  are  rated  at.  At  least,  you 
must  have  an  iron  constitution  of  mind  if  you  do.  I 
daresay  sometimes  in  old  days  an  honorable  and  gO(;d 
man  was  constrained  by  circumstances  to  become  a 
publican ;  I  mean,  of  course,  a  Jewish  publican.  lie 
meant  to  be  honest  and  kind,  even  in  that  unpopular 
spiiere  of  life.  IJut  wiicn  all  men  shi^d  him  ;  when  his 
old  friends  cut  him ;  wlien  lie  was  made  to  feel,  daily, 
that  in  the  common  estimation   publicans    and  sinners 


THOUGHTS   ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  49 

ranked  together ;  I  have  no  doubt  earthly  but  he  would 
sink  to  the  average  of  his  class.  Or,  as  the  sweetest 
wine  becomes  the  sourest  vinegar,  he  might  not  im- 
possibly prove  a  sinner  above  all  the  other  publicans 
of  the  district. 

But  not  merely  do  ignorant  and  vulgar  persons  fail 
10  appreciate  at  his  true  value  a  cultivated  man :  more 
than  this,  the  fact  of  his  cultivation  may  positively  go 
to  make  vulgar  and  ignorant  persons  di>like  and  under- 
rate him.  My  friend  Brown  is  a  clergyman  of  the 
Scotch  Church,  and  a  man  who  has  seen  a  little  of  the 
world.  Like  most  educated  Scotchmen  now-a-days,  he 
speaks  the  English  language,  if  not  with  an  English 
accent,  at  least  with  an  accent  which  is  not  disagreeably 
Scotch.  He  does  not  call  a  boat  a  bott ;  nor  a  horse, 
a  hoarrse ;  nor  philosophy,  philozzophy  ;  nor  a  road,  a 
rodd.  He  does  not  pronounce  the  word  is  as  if  it  weie 
spelt  eez,  nor  lalk  of  a  lad  of  speerit.  Still  less  does  he 
talk  of  salvahtion,  justifnahtion,  sanctificahtioii,  and  the 
like,  lie  docs  not  begin  his  church  service  by  giving 
oiit  either  a  sawiii  or  a  sfDiiin  ;  in  wliich  two  disgusting 
foi'ins  I  have  siiinctinics  known  t!ie  word  psulm  dis;- 
guised.  Brown  told  me  that  once  on  a  time  he  pi'eaihed 
in  the  cliurch  ol'  a  remote  country  paiisli,  wiieie  parsou 
and  pc()[)]e  wcie  eti'ially  uncivilized.  And  alter  service 
tlie  minister  cuuliiled  to  liim  that  lie  did  not  think  t'ae 
congregation  could  ha\e  liked  his  sermon.  '*  Ye  see," 
said  the  minister,  '*  thawt's  no  tlie  style  o'  langidge 
they're  used  wi' ! "  ^iy  Irieiid  icplied,  not  without 
a-perity.  that  he  trusted  it  was  not.  l>ut  I  coald  see, 
wlien  he  told  me  the  story,  tiiat  he  did  not  (juite  like  to 
be  an  Ugly  Duck  ;  that  it   irked  hiui  to  think  that,  in 

3  D 


50  CONCERNING  UGL"i  DUCKS. 

fact,  ^ome  vuliiar  boor  with  a  difTcrent  style  o'  langidge 
would  have  been  much  more  acceptable  to  the  peopla 
of  MutFljurgh.  I  am  very  happy  to  believe  that  such 
parishes  as  Muff  burgh  are  becoming  few  ;  and  tliat  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman  will  rarely  indeed  find  that  he 
had  better,  for  immediate  popularity,  have  been  a  clod- 
hopper and  an  ignoramus.  You  have  heard,  no  doubt, 
how  a  dissenting  preacher  in  England  demolished  the 
parish  clergyman  in  a  discourse  against  worldly  learn- 
ing. The  clergyman,  newly  come,  was  an  eminent 
scholar.  "  Do  ye  think  Powle  knew  Greek?"  said  his 
opponent,  perspiring  all  over.  And  the  people  saw  how 
useless,  and  indeed  prejudicial,  was  the  knowledge  of 
that  heathen  tongue. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  it  will  certainly  make  a 
man  an  Ugly  Duck  to  be,  in  knowledge  or  learning,  in 
advance  of  the  people  among  whom  he  lives.  A  very 
wise  man,  if  he  lives  among  people  who  are  all  fools, 
may  find  it  expedient,  like  Brutus,  to  pass  for  a  fool  too. 
And  if  he  knows  two  things  or  three  which  they  don't 
know,  he  had  better  keep  his  information  to  himself. 
Even  the  possession  of  a  single  exclusive  piece  of  knowl- 
edge may  be  a  dangerous  tiling.  Long  ago,  in  an  an- 
cient university  near  the  source  of  the  Nile,  the  profes- 
sors of  divinity  regarded  not  the  quantity  of  Greek  or 
Latin  words.  The  length  of  tlie  vowels  they  decided  in 
each  ca-e  according  to  the  idea  of  the  moment.  And 
their  pronunciation  of  Scripture  proper  names,  if  it  went 
upon  any  principle  at  all,  went  on  a  wrong  one.  A 
youthful  student,  named  McLamroch,  was  reading  an 
essay  in  the  class  of  one  of  these  respectable  but  ante- 
diluvian professors  ;    and  coming   to   the   word  T/tessu- 


THOUGHTS   ON  MISPLACED   MEN.  51 

lonica,  lie  pronounced  it,  as  all  mortals  do,  with  the 
accent  on  the  last  syllable  but  one,  and  giving  the  vowel 
as  long.  "  Say  Thessaloanica,"  said  the  venerable  pro- 
fessor, with  emphasis.  '■  I  think,  doctissime  professor," 
(for  all  professors  in  tliat  university  were  mos(  learned 
by  courtesy,)  "  that  Thessalonica  is  the  right  way,"  re- 
plied poor  McLamroch.  "  I  tell  you  it  is  wrong,"  shrilly 
shouted  the  good  professor :  "  say  Thessaloanica  !  and 
let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  IMcLamroch,  you  are  most  aboami- 
nably  affectit ! "  So  poor  IMcLamroch  was  put  down. 
He  was  an  Ugly  Duck.  And  he  found  by  sad  experi- 
ence, that  it  is  not  safe  to  know  more  than  your  profes- 
sor. And  I  verily  believe,  that  the  solitary  thing  that 
McLamroch  knew,  and  his  professor  did  not  know,  was 
the  way  to  pronounce  Thessalonica.  I  have  heard,  in- 
deed, of  a  theological  professor  of  that  ancient  day,  who 
bitterly  lamented  the  introduction  of  new  foshions  of 
pronouncing  scriptural  proper  names.  However,  he 
said,  he  could  stand  all  the  rest ;  but  tliere  were  two 
renderings  he  would  never  give  up  but  with  life.  These 
were  Kapper-nawm,  by  which  he  meant  Capernaum  ; 
and  Levvy-awthan,  by  which  he  meant  Leviathan.  And 
if  you,  my  learned  friend,  had  been  a  student  under  that 
good  man,  and  had  pronounced  these  words  as  scholars 
and  all  otliers  do,  you  would  have  found  yourself  no 
better  than  an  Ugly  Duck,  and  a  fearfully  misplaced 
man. 

A  torrent  of  wtit,  sarcasm  at  new  liglits,  and  indigna- 
tion at  people  who  were  not  content  to  pronounce  words 
(wrong)  like  their  fathers  before  them,  would  have  made 
you  sink  througli  tlie  lloor. 

To  be  in  advance  of  your  fellow-mortals  in  taste,  too, 


52  CONCERNING   UGLY  DUCKS: 

13  as  dangerous  as  to  be  in  advance  of  them  in  tlie  pro- 
nunciation of  Tliessalonica.  When  Mr.  Jones  built  liis 
bcauiit'ul  Gotliic  liouse  in  a  district  where  all  otlier 
houses  belonged  to  no  architectural  school  at  all,  all  his 
neiglibors  laughed  at  him.  A  genial  friend,  in  a  letter 
in  a  ne\vsj)apcr,  spoke  of  his  peculiar  taste,  and  called 
him  the  preposterous  Jones.  And  it  was  a  current  joke 
in  the  neighborhood,  when  you  met  a  friend,  to  say, 
"  Have  you  seen  Jones's  house  ?  "  You  then  held  up 
both  hands,  or  exclaimed,  "  Well,  I  never ! "  Then 
your  friend  burst  into  a  loud  roar  of  laughter.  In  a 
severer  mood,  you  would  say,  ''  That  fellow  !  Can't  he 
build  like  his  fathers  before  him  ?  Indeed  he  never 
had  a  giand father.  I  remember  how  he  was  brought  up 
by  his  aunt,  that  kept  a  cat's-meat  shop  in  Muffburgh," 
and  the  like.  All  this  evil  came  upon  Jones,  because  lie 
was  a  little  in  advan;:e  of  his  neighbors  in  taste.  For 
in  ten  years,  hardly  a  house  round  but  had  some  steep 
gables,  several  bay-windows,  and  a  little  stained  glass. 
Their  owners  esteemed  them  Gothic ;  and  in  one  sense, 
undoubtedly,  some  of  them  were  Gothic  enough.  In 
Scotland  now  people  build  handsome  churches,  and  pay 
all  due  respect  to  ecclesiastical  propriety.  But  it  is  not 
very  long  since  a  parish  clergyman  proposed  to  the  au- 
tliorities  that  a  i)roper  font  should  be  j)rovided  for  bap- 
tisms, because  the  only  vessel  heretofore  used  for  that 
pur])Ose  was  a  crockery  basi4i,  used  ibr  washing  hands; 
and  one  of  the  authorities  exclaimed  indignantly,  "  We 
are  not  goiug  to  have  any  gewgaws  in  our  church  "  :  by 
gewgaws  meaning  a  decorous  font.  What  could  be  done 
with  such  a  man  ?  Violently  to  knock  his  head  against 
a  wall  would  have  been  wrong ;  for  no  man  should  be 


THOUGHTS   ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  53 

visited  with  temporal  penalties  on  account  of  his  honest 
opinions.  Yet  any  less  decided  treatment  would  have 
been  of  no  avail. 

We  ought  all  to  be  very  thankful,  if  we  are  in  our 
right  place ;  if  we  are  set  among  people  whom  we  suit, 
and  who  suit  us;  and  among  whom  we  need  neither  to 
practise  a  dishonest  concealment  of  our  views,  nor  to 
stand  in  the  jiainful  position  of  Ugly  Ducks  and  Mis 
placed  Men.  Yes,  a  man  may  well  be  glad,  if  he  is  the 
square  man  in  the  square  hole.  For  he  might  have  been 
a  round  man  in  a  square  hole ;  and  then  he  would  have 
been  unhappy  in  the  hole,  und  the  hole  would  have 
hated  him.  I  know  a  place  where  a  man  who  should 
say  that  he  thought  Catholic  Emancipation  common 
justice  and  common  sense  would  he  hooted  down  even 
yet ;  would  be  told  he  was  a  villain,  blinded  by  Satan. 
There  is  a  locality,  where  morality  indeed  is  very  low, 
but  where  a  valued  friend  of  mine  was  held  up  to  repro- 
bation as  a  dangerous  and  insidious  man,  because  he 
declared  in  print  that  he  did  not  tliink  it  sinful  to  take 
a  quiet  walk  on  Sunday.  In  that  locality,  one  birth  in 
every  three  is  illegitimate;  but  it  was  pleasant  and 
easy,  by  abuse  of  the  rector  of  a  London  parish,  and 
by  abuse  of  otiiers  like  him,  to  compound  for  the  neglect 
of  the  duty  of  trying  to  break  Hodge  and  Bill,  Kate 
and  Sally,  of  their  evil  ways.  I  know  a  place  where 
you  may  find  an  intelligent  man,  out  of  a  lunatic  asylum 
too,  who  will  tell  you  that  to  have  an  organ  in  chui-ch  is 
to  set  up  images  and  go  back  to  Judaism.  I  have  lately 
heard  it  seriously  maintained  tliat  to  make  a  decorous 
pause  for  a  minute  after  service  in  church  is  over,  and 


54  CONCERNING   UGLY   DUCKS: 

pray  for  God's  blessing  on  the  worship  in  which  you 
have  joined,  is  "  contrary  to  reason  and  to  Scripture ! " 
I  know  phices  where  any  one  of  the  plainest  cjinons  of 
taste,  being  expressed  by  a  man,  would  be  taken  as 
stamping  him  a  fool.  Now  what  would  you  do,  my 
friend,  if  you  found  yourself  set  down  among  people 
witii  whom  you  were  utterly  out  of  sympathy ;  whose 
first  |)rincij)le.s  appeared  to  you  the  prejudices  of  prag- 
matic blockheads,  and  to  whom  your  first  principles  ap- 
peared those  of  a  silly  and  Ugly  Duck?  One  would 
say,  "If  you  don't  want  to  dwarf  and  distort  your  wiiole 
moral  nature,  get  out  of  that  situation."  But  then  some 
poor  fellows  cannot.  And  then  they  must  either  take 
rank  as  INIisplaced  Men,  or  go  tiiroiigh  life  hypocriti- 
cally pretending  to  share  views  which  they  despise. 
The  latter  alternative  is  inadmissible  in  any  circum- 
stances. Be  honest,  whatever  you  do.  Take  your 
place  boldly  as  an  Ugly  Duck,  if  God  has  apjiointed 
that  to  be  your  portion  in  this  life.  Doubtless,  it  will 
be  a  great  triiU.  But  you  and  I,  friendly  reader,  set  by 
Providence  among  people  who  understand  us  and  whom 
we  understand;  among  whom  we  may  talk  out  our  hon- 
est heart,  and  (let  us  hope)  do  so ;  in  talking  to  whom 
we  don  't  need  to  be  on  oiw  guard,  and  every  now  and 
then  to  pull  up,  thinking  to  4)urselves,  "Now  this  sneak- 
ing fellow  is  lying  on  the  catch  for  my  saying  some- 
thing he  may  go  and  repeat  to  my  prejudice  behind  my 
back";  how  thankful  we  should  be!  I  declare,  looking 
back  on  days  that  have  been,  in  this  very  country,  I 
caimot  understand  how  manly,  enlightened,  and  honest 
men  lived  then  at  all !  You  must  either  have  been  a 
savage  bigot,  or  a  wretched  sneak,  or  a  martyr.     The 


THOUGHTS   ON   MISPLACED   MEN.  55 

alternative  is  an  awful  one ;  but  let  us  trust,  my  friend, 
that  if  you  and  I  had  lived  then,  we  should,  by  God's 
grace,  have  been  equal  to  it.  Yes,  I  humbly  trust  that 
if  we  had  lived  tlien,  we  sliould  either  have  been 
burned,  hanged,  or  shot.  For  the  days  have  been  in 
which  that  must  have  been  the  portion  of  an  honest 
man,  who  thought  for  himself,  and  who  would  be  dra- 
gooned by  neither  pope,  prelate,  nor  presbyter. 

But  now,  ha\  iug  written  myself  into  a  heat  of  indig- 
nation, I  think  it  inexpedient  to  write  more.  For  it 
appears  to  me  that  to  write  or  to  read  an  essay  like  this 
ought  always  to  be  a  relief  and  recreation.  And  those 
grave  matters,  which  stir  the  heart  too  deeply,  and  tin- 
gle painl'uUy  througli  the  nervous  system,  are  best 
treated  at  other  times,  in  other  ways.  Many  men  find 
it  advisable  to  keep  to  themselves  the  subjects  on  which 
they  feel  most  keenly.  As  for  me,  I  dare  not  allow 
myself  to  think  of  certain  evils  of  whose  existence  I 
know.  Sometimes  they  drive  one  to  some  quiet  spot, 
where  you  can  walk  up  and  down  a  little  path  with 
grass  and  evergreens  on  either  hand,  aud  try  to  forget 
the  sin  and  misery  you  cannot  mend :  looking  at  the 
dappled  shades  of  color  on  the  grass ;  taking  hold  of  a 
little  spray  of  holly,  and  poring  upon  its  leaves ;  stop- 
ping beside  a  great  tir-tree,  and  diUgently  perusing  the 
wrinkles  of  its  bark. 

So  we  shut  up.  So  we  cave  in.  0  the  beauty  c»f 
these  simple  phrases,  so  purely  classic ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 

OF   THE   SUDDEN   SWEETENING   OF   CERTAIN 
GRAPES. 


ANY  years  since,  on  a  sunshiny  autumn  day, 
a  jrentlenian  named  Mr.  Charles  James  Fox, 
a  hiAvycr  of  eminence,  was  walking  with  his 
friend  Mr.  Mantrap  through  a  vineyard  near 
Melipotamus.  A  vineyard  in  that  region  of  the  earth  is 
not  the  shabby  field  of  what  look  like  stunted  goose- 
berry bushes  whicli  you  may  see  on  the  Rhine.  For 
trellised  on  high,  from  tree  to  tree,  there  hung  the  ripe 
clusters,  rich  and  red.  One  cluster,  of  especial  size  and 
beauty,  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr.  Fox.  He  had  in 
his  hand  a  walking-stick  (made  of  oak,  varnished  to  a 
yellow  hue),  with  a  hook  at  its  superior  end.  With  this 
im[)lement  he  sought  to  reach  tliat  cluster  of  grapes, 
with  the  view  of  appropriating  it  to  his  personal  con- 
sumption, possibly  upon  the  spot.  But  after  repeated 
attempts,  he  found  he  could  not  in  any  way  attain  it. 
Upon  this,  Mr.  Fox,  a  man  of  ready  wit  intellectually, 
but  morally  no  more  than  an  average  human  being, 
turned  off  the  little  disappointment  by  saying  to  his 
friend,  "  0,  bother:  I  believe  the  grapes  are  as  sour  as 
the  disposition  of  Mr.  .Snarling."     The  friends  prose- 


SUDDEN  SWEETENING   OF   CERTAIN   GRAPES.       57 

cutcd  their  walk ;  but  after  they  had  proceeded  a  few 
miles,  it  occurred  to  Mr.  Mantrap  that  Mi\  Fox  had 
depreciated  the  irrapes  because  he  could  not  reach  them. 
]N[r.  Mantrap  mentioned  the  occurrence  to  various  ac- 
quaintances, and  gradually  it  came  to  be  that,  in  the 
circle  of  IMr.  Fox's  friends,  sour  grapes  grew  a  pro- 
verbial phrase,  signifying  anything  a  human  being  would 
like  to  get,  and,  failing  to  get,  cried  down. 

These  facts,  now  given  to  the  public  in  an  accurate 
fasliion,  were  lately  made  the  subject  of  a  short  nari'a- 
tive  in  a  little  volume  of  moral  stories  published  by  an 
individual  whose  name  I  do  not  mention.  But  by  one 
of  those  misapprehensions  which  naturally  occur  when  a 
story  is  conveyed  by  oral  tradition,  that  gentleman  (of 
whom  I  desire  to  speak  with  the  utmost  respect)  repre- 
sented that  the  person  who  acted  in  the  way  briefly 
described  was  not  Mr.  C.  J.  Fox,  the  eminent  lawyer, 
but  the  well-known  inferior  animal  which  is  termed  a 
fox.  A  moment's  thought  may  show  how  impossible  it 
is  to  receive  such  a  representation.  For  it  is  extremely 
doubtful  whether  a  fox  would  care  to  eat  grapes,  even 
if  he  could  get  a  cluster  of  the  very  finest;  while  the 
notion  that  such  an  animal  could  express  his  ideas  in 
articulate  language  is  one  which  could  not  possibly  be 
received,  unless  by  illiterate  persons,  residing  at  a  great 
distance  from  a  university  town. 

Should  the  reader  have  had  any  difficulty  in  grasping 
the  full  meaning  of  what  has  been  said,  it  is  requested 
that  he  should  pause  at  this  point,  and  read  the  preced- 
ing paragraphs  a  second  or  even  a  third  time  before 
proceeding  further. 
3* 


58  OF   THE   SUDDEN  SWEETENING   OF 

Sometimes,  in  tliis  world,  people  dishonestly  say  that 
the  grapes  they  have  failed  to  reach  are  sour,  thouiih 
knowing  qnite  well  that  the  grapes  are  sweet.  In  tliis 
case,  these  people  desire  to  conceal  their  own  disappoint- 
ment;  and  (if  possible)  to  make  the  value  of  the  grapes 
less  to  such  as  may  ultimately  get  them.  Sometimes, 
in  this  world,  when  people  have  done  their  best  to  reach 
the  grapes  and  failed,  they  come  to  honestly  believe  that 
the  grapes  are  sour.  They  do,  in  good  faith,  cease  to 
care  for  them,  and  resign  their  miml  quite  cheerfully  to 
doing  without  them.  But  there  is  no  reckoning  up  the 
odd  ways  in  which  the  machinery  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing within  human  beings  works  ;  and  it  is  the  purpose 
of  the  present  dissertation  to  notice  two  of  these. 

One  is,  that  when  you  get  the  grapes,  and  specially 
if  you  get  them  too  easily,  the  grapes  are  apt,  if  not 
exactly  to  grow  sour,  yet  in  great  measure  to  lose  their 
flavor.  When  you  fairly  get  a  thing,  you  do  not  care 
for  it  so  much.  Many  people  have  lately  been  inter- 
ested and  touched  by  a  truthful  representation  in  tiie 
pages  of  a  very  graceful,  natural,  and  pure  writer  of 
fiction,  who3(?  pages  (I  have  learned  with  some  surprise) 
various  worthy  people  think  it  wrong  to  read.  That 
graceful  and  excellent  writer  shows  us  how  a  certain 
young  man  sought  tlie  love  of  a  certain  young  wo- 
man, and  how  when  that  young  man  (not  a  noble  or 
worthy  man  indeed)  found  tlie  love  of  that  poor  girl 
given  him  so  fully  and  unreservedly,  he  came  not  to 
care  for  it,  and  to  think  he  might  have  done  better. 
Lead  him  out  and  chastise  him,  my  friend  ;  and  having 
done  so,  look  into  your  own  heart,  and  see  whether 
there  be  anything  like  him.     If  you  be  a  wise  person, 


CERTAIN   GRAPES.  59 

you  may  find  reason  severely  to  flagellate  yourself.  For 
it  is  the  ungrateful  and  unworthy  way  of  average  human 
nature,  to  undervalue  the  blessings  God  gives  us,  if 
they  come  too  cheaply  and  easily.  Even  Bruce,  at  the 
source  of  the  Nile,  thought  to  himself,  "Is  this  all?" 
and  Gibbon,  looking  out  upon  the  Lake  of  Geneva, 
after  writing  the  last  lines  of  the  Decline  and  Fall, 
tells  us  how  he  thought  and  felt  in  like  manner. 

Tliis,  however,  is  not  my  special  subject.  My  sub- 
ject is  also  connected  with  grapes  ;  but  it  is  a  different 
jjhenomenon  to  which  I  solicit  the  readers  rapt  and 
delighted  attention.  It  is,  how  suddenly  certain  grapes 
grow  sweet,  when  you  find  you  can  get  them.  Yo"u 
had  no  estimate  at  all  of  these  grapes  before,  or  you 
even  thought  them  sour.  But  suddenly  you  find  the 
hook  at  the  end  of  your  walking-stick  can  reach  them, 
suddenly  you  find  you  can  get  them,  and  now  you 
judge  of  tliem  quite  differently. 

Many  young  women  luive  thought,  quite  honestly,  — 
and  perhaps  have  said,  in  the  injudicious  way  in  which 
ine.xj)erienced  people  talk,  —  that  they  would  not  marry 
such  and  such  a  man  u[)()n  any  account.  But  some  fine 
afternoon,  the  man  in  cpiestibn  asked  them ;  and  to  the 
astonishment  of  their  friends  (some  of  whom  would  have 
been  glad  to  do  the  like  themselves),  the  young  ladies 
gladly  accejjted  the  human  being,  held  in  such  unfavor- 
able estimation  before.  It  just  made  all  the  difference, 
to  find  that  the  thing  could  be  got.  They  began,  all  al 
once,  to  have  quite  a  different  estimate  of  the  man  ;  to 
think  of  him  and  of  his  qualifications  in  quite  a  difi;erent 
way.  The  grapes  suddenly  grew  sweet ;  and  instead 
of  being  contumeliously  cast  into  the  ditch,  they  were 
eaten  with  considerable  satisfaction. 


60  OF   THE   SUDDKN   SWEETENING   OF 

Even  so  have  young  clergymen,  fresh  from  the  uni- 
versity, thought  that  they  would  not  on  any  account 
take  such  a  small  living  or  such  a  shabby  church ;  and 
in  a  little  while  been  very  thankful  to  get  one  not  so 
good.  And  I  do  not  mean  at  present,  in  the  case  of 
either  the  young  women  or  the  young  preachers,  that 
they  learn  humbler  ideas  of  themselves  as  time  goes  on, 
and  come  to  lowlier  expectations.  That,  of  course,  is 
true ;  but  my  present  assertion  is,  that  in  truth  when 
the  thing  is  put  within  their  reach,  they  come  to  thinli 
more  highly  of  it ;  they  come  to  see  all  its  advantages 
and  merits,  they  are  not  merely  resigned  to  take  it,  — 
they  are  glad  to  get  it.  Many  a  man  is  now  in  a  place 
in  life,  and  very  content  and  thankful  to  be  there, 
wliich  he  would  have  repudiated  the  notion  of  his  ac- 
cepting very  shortly  before  he  accepted  it  with  thank- 
fulness. 

The  truth  is,  that  if  you  look  carefully,  and  look  for 
some  length  of  time,  into  the  character  of  almost  any- 
thing that  is  not  po.-itively  bad,  you  will  see  a  great  deal 
of  good  about  it.  Friends  in  my  own  calling,  do  you 
not  remember  how,  in  your  student  days,  you  used  to 
look  at  the  shabby  churclies  of  our  native  land,  where 
shabby  churches  are  (ahxs  !)  the  ride,  and  decorous  ones 
the  exception,  and  how  you  wondered  then  how  their 
incumbents  could  stand  them  ?  You  thouslit  liow  much 
it  would  add  to  the  difficulty  of  conducting  public  worship 
worthily  to  be  obliged  to  do  it  under  the  cross-inHuence 
of  a  dirty,  dilaj)idated  barn,  with  a  mass  of  rickety  jjcws, 
where  every  arrangement  would  jar  distressingly  upon 
the  whole  nervous  system  of  every  man  with  a  vestige 
of  taste.     You  remember  how  your  heart  sunk  as  you 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  61 

looked  at  the  vile  wagon-roofed  meeting-house  in  a 
dirty  village  street,  with  no  churcliyard  at  all  round  it ; 
or  with  the  mangy,  weedy,  miserable-looking  pound 
which  even  twenty  years  since  wa3  in  many  places 
thought  good  enough  for  the  solemn  sleep  of  the  re- 
deemed body,  still  imited  to  the  Saviour.  And  you 
remember  how  earnestly  you  hoped  that  you  might  be 
favored  so  highly  as  to  attain  a  parish  where  the  church 
was  a  building  at  least  decent,  and  if  possible  fairly 
ecclesiastical.  And  yet  it  is  extremely  likely  you  got  a 
remarkably  shabby  church  for  your  first  one ;  and  it  is  in 
the  highest  degree  probable  that  in  a  little  you  got  quite 
interested  in  it,  and  thonglit  it  really  very  good.  Of 
course,  when  my  friend  Mr.  Snarling  reads  this,  he  will 
exclaim.  What,  is  not  the  clergyman's  work  so  weighty 
that  it  ouglit  not  to  matter  to  him  in  the  least  what  the 
mere  outward  building  is  like  ?  Is  not  the  spiritual 
church  the  great  thing  ?  may  not  God  be  worshipped  in 
the  humblest  place  as  heartily  as  in  the  noblest  ?  And 
I  reply  to  that  candid  person,  who  never  misrepresented 
any  one,  and  who  never  said  a  good  word  of  any  one,  — 
Yes,  my  acquaintance,  I  remember  all  that.  But  still  I 
hold  that  little  vexatious  external  circumstances  have  a 
great  effect  in  producing  a  feeling  of  irritation  the  re- 
verse of  devotional  ;  and  I  believe  that  we  poor  crea- 
tures, with  our  wandering  thoughts  and  our  cold  hearts, 
are  much  more  likely  to  worship  in  spirit,  if  we  are  kept 
free  from  such  unfriendly  influences,  and  if  our  worship 
be  surrounded  by  all  the  outward  decency  and  solemnity 
which  are  attainable.  Give  us  a  decorous  building,  I 
don't  ask  for  a  grand  one ;  give  us  quietude  and  order 
in    all   its   arrangements ;    give  us    church    music   that 


62       OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

soothes  and  cheers,  and  brings  us  fresh  heart ;  give  u? 
an  assemblage  of  seemingly  devout  worshippers.  And 
these  tilings  being  present.  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
the  average  worsliippt'r  will  be  far  more  likely  to  offer 
true  spiritual  worship  than  in  [daces  to  which  I  could 
easily  point,  where  tiie  discreditable  building  and  the 
slovenly  service  are  an  offence  and  a  mortification  to 
every  one  with  any  sense  of  what  is  fit. 

This,  however,  is  by  the  bye.  _I  could  say  much  more 
on  the  subject.  But  I  remember,  thankfully,  that  it  is  a 
subject  on  which  all  educated  persons  now  think  alike, 
everywhere.     It  did  not  use  to  be  so,  once. 

But  not  merely  as  regards  clmrches,  but  as  regards 
most  other  tilings,  my  principle  holds  true,  that  if  you 
look  carefully  and  for  some  time  into  the  qualifications 
of  almost  anytliing  not  positively  bad,  you  will  discern 
a  great  deal  of  good  about  it.  Take  a  very  ordinary- 
looking  bunch  of  grapes ;  take  even  a  bunch  of  grapes 
which  appears  sour  at  a  cursory  glance  :  look  at  it  care- 
fully lor  a  good  while,  with  the  sense  that  it  is  your 
own ;  and  it  will  sweeten  before  your  eyes.  You  pass 
a  seedy  little  country  house,  looking  like  a  fourth-rate 
farm-house :  you  think,  and  possibly  say  (if  the  man 
who  lives  in  it  be  a  friend  of  your  own),  that  it  is  a 
wretched  hole.  The  man  who  lives  in  it  has  very  likely 
persuaded  himself  that  it  is  a  very  liandsome  and  at- 
tractive place.  "  What  kind  of  manse  have  you  got  ?  " 
said  my  friend  Smith  to  a  certain  worthy  clergyman. 
"  Oh,  it  is  a  beautiful  place,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  It 
was  in  fact  a  dismal,  weather-stained,  whitewashed 
erection,  without  an  archiiectural  feature,  with  hardly 
a  tree  or  an  evergreen  near  it,  standing  on  a  bleak  hill- 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  63 

side.  Smith  heard  the  reply  with  great  pleasure  ;  feel- 
ing thankful  that  by  God's  kind  appointment  a  sensible 
man's  own  grapes  seem  sweet  to  him,  which  appear 
sour  to  everybody  else,  and  to  nobody  sourer  than  to 
himself,  before  they  became  his  own.  Tiie  only  wonder 
Smith  felt  was,  that  tlie  good  minister's  reply  had  not 
been  stronger.  lie  was  prepared  to  hear  the  good  man 
say,  "  Oil,  it  is  tlie  most  beautiful  place  in  Scotland ! " 
For  people  in  general  cannot  express  their  appreciation 
of  things,  without  introducing  comparisons,  and  indeed 
superlatives.  If  a  man's  window  commands  a  fine  view, 
he  is  not  content  to  say  that  it  does  command  a  fine 
view :  no,  it  commands  "  the  finest  view  in  Britain." 
If  a  human  being  has  an  attack  of  illness,  about  a 
hundredth  part  as  bad  as  hundreds  of  people  endure 
every  day,  that  human  being  will  probably  be  quite 
indignant,  unless  you  recognize  it  as  a  fact,  that  nobody 
ever  suffered  so  much  before.  Take  an  undistinguislied 
volume  from  your  shelves,  read  it  carefully  in  your 
leisure  hours  for  several  evenings,  and  that  undis- 
tinguished volume  will  become  (in  your  estimation)  an 
important  one.  My  friend  Smith,  when  he  went  to  his 
country  parish,  was  obliged  for  several  months  to  have 
his  books  in  large  jjacking-boxes,  liis  study  not  being 
ready  to  receive  them.  He  lived  in  a  lonely  rural  spot, 
for  many  wintry  weeks,  all  alone.  It  was  a  charming 
scene  around,  indeed  ;  warm  with  green  i\y  and  yews 
and  lioUies  through  the  brief  daylight,  but  dreary  and 
solitary  througli  the  long  dark  evenings  to  a  man  ac- 
customed to  gas-lit  streets.  Soon  after  settling  there, 
Smith  chanced  to  draw  forth  from  a  box  a  certain 
volume,  which  had  remained  for  months  in    liis  bookcase 


64       OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

unnoted :  one  among  many  more,  all  very  like.  And 
on  every  Sunday  evening  of  that  solitary  time,  Smith 
read  in  that  volume.  He  read  witli  pleasure  and  jirofit. 
Ever  since  tiien,  lie  has  thought  ihe  hook  a  valuahle 
and  excellent  one.  It  is  distinguished  among  his  hooks 
as  the  Bishop  of  Anywhere  is  among  live  hundred  other 
clergymen  ;  not  that  he  is  a  whit  wiser  or  better,  but 
that  he  has  been  accidentally  Hiade  more  conspicuous. 
When  Smitli  turns  over  its  leaves  now,  the  moaning 
of  January  winds  through  the  pine  wood  comes  back, 
and  the  brawl  of  a  brook,  winter-flooded.  In  brief,  that 
cluster  of  grapes  suddenly  sweetened,  because  its  merits 
were  fairly  weiglied.  If  a  tiling  be  good  at  all,  look  at 
it  and  examine  it,  and  it  will  seem  better. 

Now,  a  thing  you  have  no  chance  of  getting,  you 
never  seriously  weigh  the  merits  of.  When  you  receive 
a  half  oifer  of  a  place  in  lil'e,  it  is  quite  fair  for  you  to 
say,  "  Offer  it  fairly  and  I  sliall  think  of  it."  You 
cannot  take  the  trouble  of  estimating  it  now.  It  is  a 
laborious  and  anxious  thing  to  make  up  your  mind  in 
such  a  case.  You  must  consider  and  count  up  and 
weigh  possibly  a  great  number  of  circumstances.  You 
do  not  choose  to  undergo  that  fatigue,  jierhaps  for  no 
result.  And  if  you  be  in  perplexity  what  to  do,  the 
balance  may  be  turned  just  by  the  fact  tliat  the  thing 
is  attainable.  Hence  the  truth  of  that  true  proverb,  that 
Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady.  If  you  are  fond  of 
JMiss  Smith,  and  wish  to  marry  her,  don't  spe(;ulate 
at  home  whether  or  not  she  will  have  you.  Go  and  ask 
her.  Your  asking  may  be  the  very  thing  that  will  decide 
her  to  have  you.  And  you,  jiatron  or  electors  of  some 
little  country  parish  which  is  vacant,  don't  say,  "  We 


J 


CERTAIN   GRAPES.  65 

need  never  offer  it  to  such  and  such  an  eminent  preach- 
er ;  he  would  never  tliink  of  it !  "  Go  and  trj  him. 
Perhaps  he  may.  Perhaps  you  may  catch  him  just  at 
a  time  when  lie  is  feeling  weary  and  exhausted  ;  when 
he  is  growing  old  ;  when  jour  ofler  may  recall  with 
iresli  beauty  the  green  fields  and  trees  amid  which  he 
once  was  young ;  when  lie  is  sighing  for  a  little  rest. 
I  could  point  out  instances,  more  thau  one  or  two,  in 
England  and  in  Scotland,  in  which  a  bold  offering  of  a 
bunch  of  grapes  to  a  distinguished  human  being  induced 
him  to  accept  the  grapes ;  though  you  would  have 
fancied  beforehand  that  they  would  have  been  no 
tem|)tation  to  him.  I  have  known  a  man  who  (in  a 
moral  sense)  refused  a  pine-apple,  afterwards  accept 
a  turnip,  and  like  it.  "We  have  all  heard  of  a  good  man 
who  might  have  lived  in  a  palace,  holding  a  position 
of  great  rank  and  gain,  and  of  very  easy  duty,  who  put 
that  golden  cluster  of  grapes  aside,  and  by  liis  own  free 
choiie  went  to  a  place  of  hard  work  and  little  fame  or 
profit,  to  remain  there  one  of  the  happiest  as  well  as  one 
of  the  noblest  and  most  useful  of  humankind !  And 
the  only  way  in  which  I  can  account  for  various  mar- 
riages is  by  supposing  that  the  grapes  suddeidy  grew 
irresistibly  sweet,  just  when  it  appeared  that  they  could 
be  had.  You  may  have  known  a  fair  young  girl  quite 
willingly  and  happily  marry  a  good  old  creature,  whom 
you  would  luive  said  a  "priori  she  was  quite  sure  to 
refuse.  But  wlien  the  old  creature  made  offer  of  his 
faded  self  (and  his  unfaded  possessions),  the  whole  thing 
offered  acquired  a  sudden  value  and  beauty.  He  migiit 
be  an  odd  stick  ;  but  then  his  estate  had  most  beautiful 
timber.     Intellectually  and  morally  he  might  be  inferior 


66  OF  THE  suddp:n  swef.tkning  of 

or  even  deficient ;  but  then  his  three  per  cents  formed 
a  positive  quantity  of  enormous  amount.  The  whole 
thing  olfered  had  to  be  regarded  as  one  bum-h  of  grapes. 
And  if  some  of  the  grapes  were  sour  and  shrivelled,  a 
greater  number  of  them  were  plump  and  juicy. 

Nobody  who  reads  this  page  really  knows  whether  ho 
would  like  to  be  lord  chancellor  or  to  live  in  a  house  like 
Windsor  Castle..  The  writer  dias  not  the  faintest  idea 
whether  he  would  like  to  be  Arclibishop  of  Canterbury. 
We  never  even  ourselves  to  such  things  a-  these.  Wo 
don't  seriously  consider  whether  the  grapes  are  sweet  or 
sour,  wliitih  there  is  not  the  faintest  possibility  of  our 
ever  reaching.  When  Mr.  Disraeli  (as  lie  himself  said 
in  Parliament)  "  would  have  been  very  thankful  for 
some  small  place,"  he  had  never  lifted  his  eyes  to  tlie 
leadership  of  a  certain  great  political  party.  Of  that 
lofty  cluster  he  had  no  estimate  then ;  but  the  modest 
little  bunch  of  twelve  liundred  a-year  seemed  attainable, 
and  so  seemed  sweet.  But  he  was  a  great  man  when  he 
said  "  I  am  very  glad  now  I  did  not  get  it  !"  He  was 
destined  to  something  bigger  and  loftier.  And  when 
that  greater  position  at  last  loomed  in  view,  and  became 
possible,  became  likely,  —  we  can  well  believe  that  the 
great  orator  began  to  estimate  it ;  and  that  it  became  an 
object  of  honorable  ambition  when  it  was  very  near,  and 
was  all  but  grasped.  When  the  prize  is  witliin  reach,  it 
becomes  precious.  When  the  Atlantic  cable  was  being 
laid,  you  can  tiiink  how  preri(jus  it  wovdd  seem  wlien  the 
vessels  which  were  la}ing  it  had  got  within  a  mile  or 
two  of  land.  Yes,  success,  just  witliin  our  grasp,  grows 
inestimably  valuable.  The  cluster  of  giapes,  long  striven 
after,  and  now  at  length  just  got  hold  of,  —  how  sweet 
it  seems  I 


CERTAIN   GRAPES.  67 

My  friend  Mr.  Brown  had  often  remarked  to  me,  "  If 
ever  there  was  a  liideous  erection  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  it  is  that  St.  Sophia's  Church  ;  and  1  don't  know 
a  man  less  to  be  envied  than  the  incumbent  of  so  labori- 
ous and  troublesome  a  j^arish."  Brown  and  I  were 
sitting  on  the  wall  of  his  beautiful  churcliyard  in  the 
country  one  line  sunnner  day,  when  he  made  this  re- 
mark, adding,  ''  How  much  happier  a  life  we  have  here 
in  this  pure  air  and  among  these  sweet  fields  "  (and  in- 
deed the  fragrance  of  the  clover  was  very  delightful 
that  day),  "and  witli  our  kindly,  well-behaved  country 
people  !"  I  need  hardly  mention,  that  Mr.  Brown  shortly 
afterwards  succeeded  to  the  vacant  charge  of  St.  So- 
phia's, a  huge  church  in  a  great  city.  He  was  offered 
it  in  a  kind  way ;  saw  its  claims  and  advantages  in  a 
new  light;  accepted  it,  and  is  very  happy  in  it.  And 
recently  he  recalled  to  my  memory  his  former  estimate 
of  it,  and  said  how  mistaken  it  was.  He  even  added, 
that,  although  the  arcliitecture  of  St.  Sophia's  was  not 
the  purest  Gothic  (it  is  in  fact  not  Gothic  at  all),  still 
there  is  a  simple  grandeur  about  it,  which  produces  a 
great  effect  upon  the  mind  wlien  you  grow  accustomed 
to  it.  "  I  used  to  laugh,"  he  said,  "  at  poor  old  Dr.  Log 
when  he  declared  it  was  the  finest  church  in  Britain 
but,  do  you  know,  some  of  its  propoi-tions  are  really  un- 
rivalled. Here,  ibr  instance,  look  at  that  arch";  —  and 
then  he  went  on  at  considerable  lengtli.  The  truth  was, 
that  tlie  grapes  had  suddenly  sweetened.  The  position 
never  thought  of,  or  thouglit  of  only  as  quite  unattainable, 
was  a  very  different  tiling  now. 

I  do  not  for  a  moment  suppose  any  insincerity  on  the 
part  of  my  frieuJ       He  quite  sincerely  esteemed  the 


68  OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENraG   OF 

prapes  as  sour,  \viien  they  Iniiig  beyond  his  reach.  He 
quite  giiicerely  esteemed  tliem  as  sweet,  when  he  came 
to  know  them  better.  But,  as  a  general  rule,  whenever 
auy  man  or  woman  undervalues  and  despises  something 
which  average  human  nature  prizes  and  enjoys,  we  may 
say  that  if  the  grapes  are  fairly  put  within  reach,  they 
would  suddenly  and  greatly  sweeten.  I  speak  of  aver- 
age human  nature.  Tliere  are  exceptional  cases.  There 
is  a  great  and  good  man  who  did  not  choose  to  be  a 
bishoj),  who  did  not  choose  to  be  an  archbishop.  The 
test  is,  that  he  was  offered  tliese  places  and  refused 
them.  But  there  are  a  great  many  men,  who  could  quite 
honestly  say  that  they  don't  want  to  be  bishops  or  arch- 
bishops. But  then  they  have  not  been  tried  ;  and  there 
are  some  that  I  should  not  like  to  try.  I  believe  the 
lawn  would  brighten  into  effulgence,  when  it  was  offered. 
The  opportunity  of  usefulness  would  appear  so  great, 
that  it  could  not  in  conscience  be  refused.  The  grapes, 
being  within  rearh,  would  grow  so  sweet,  that  tliose 
good  men  would  ibrgct  their  old  professions,  and  (in 
the  words  of  Lord  Castlereagh)  tui-n  their  backs  upon 
themselves. 

Perha])3  you  have  known  a  refined  young  lady  of 
thirty-nine  years,  who  hioked  with  disdain  at  her  young- 
er female  friends  when  they  got  married.  She  wondered 
at  their  weakiiess  in  getting  spoony  about  any  man,  and 
despised  tlieir  flutter  of  interest  in  the  immediate  pros- 
pect of  the  wedding-day  and  all  its  little  arrangements. 
'J'lie  whole  thing  —  trousseau,  cards,  favors,  cake  —  was 
contemptible.  I'erhajis  you  have  known  such  a  mature 
young  lady  get  married  her.-elf  at  last,  and  evince  a 
pride  and  an  *ixhilarat:on  in  the  pros^pect  such  as  are 


CERTAIN   GRAPES.  69 

rarely  seen.  It  was  delightful  to  witness  the  maidenly 
airs  oi'  the  individual  to  whom  the  bunch  of  grnjies  had 
finally  become  att  unable  ;  the  enthusiastic  affection  she 
testified  towards  the  romantic  hero  (weighing  sixteen 
stone)  to  whom  she  had  given  her  young  affections  ;  the 
anguish  of  perplexity  as  to  the  material  and  fashion  of 
the  wedding-dress  ;  in  short,  the  sudden  sweetening  of 
the  grapes  which  had  previously  been  so  remarkably 
sour.  There  is  nothing  here  to  laugh  at :  it  is  a  benefi- 
cent providential  arrangement.  In  all  walks  of  life  you 
may  have  remarked  the  !-ame.  You  may  have  known  a 
hard-featured  and  well-principled  servant,  who,  having 
no  admirer,  gave  herself  out  as  a  man-hater,  and  be- 
lieved herself  to  be  one.  But  some  one  turning  up  who 
(let  us  hojie)  admired  and  appreciated  her  real  excel- 
lence, that  admirable  young  woman  grew  quite  tremen- 
dous :  first,  in  her  })ride  and  exultation  that  she  had  a 
beau  ;  and  secondly,  in  her  admiration  and  fondness  for 
him.  Yes ;  turn  out  human  nature  with  a  pitch  fork  ; 
and  it  will  come  back  again. 

Perhaps  you  have  known  a  wealthy  old  gentleman, 
living  quietly  somewhere  in  the  city  (let  the  word  be 
understood  in  its  cockney  sense),  and  going  into  no  so- 
ciety whatever,  who  frequently  professed  to  despise  the 
vanities  to  which  other  folk  attach  importance.  He 
utterly  contemned  such  things  a-^  a  fine  house,  a  fashion- 
able neighborhood,  titled  acquaintances,  and  the  like  ; 
and  he  did  it  all  quite  sincerely.  But  nature  had  her 
way  at  last.  That  wealthy  gentleman  bought  a  house 
in  an  aristocratic  West  End  square.  His  ehition  at 
finding  himself  there  was  plea-ing,  yet  a  little  irritating. 
He  could  no*  '-efrain  from  telling  everyone  that  he  lived 


70       OK  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

there.  OccasioiiaUy  he  would  cut  sliort  a  conversation 
with  a  city  acquaintance,  by  statinjr  that  he  "  must  be 
home  to  dinner  at  half  past  seven  in  Bei-keley  Square." 
He  speedily  informed  himi=elf  of  the  precise  social  stand- 
ing of  -every  inhabitant  of  that  handsome  quadrangle ; 
and  would  even  jiiodiice  the  "  Court  Guide,"  and  tell  an 
occasional  visitor  about  the  rank  and  connections  of 
each  name  in  the  square.  The  delight  with  which  he 
beheld  a  peer  at  his  diiuier-table  may  be  conceived  but 
not  described.  The  grapes,  in  fact,  had  in  all  sincerity 
been  esteemed  as  sour  till  he  got  possession  of  them. 
Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  they  became  inconceivably  sweet. 
80  you  may  have  beheld  a  plain,  respectable  man,  who 
liad  made  a  considerable  foitune  in  the  oil  trade,  buy  a 
property  in  the  country  and  settle  there.  "I  want  noth- 
ing to  do  with  your  stuck-up  gentiy,"  said  that  respecta- 
ble man.  "  I  shall  keep  by  my  old  friends  Smith, 
Brown,  and  Robinson,  who  were  apprentices  with  old 
McOily  along  with  me,  forty  years  ago."  But  when 
the  carriage  of  the  neighboring  baronet  drove  uj)  to  the 
worthy  man 's  door  to  call,  it  and  its  inmates  were 
received  with  enthusiasm.  There  was,  after  all,  a 
refinement  of  manner  and  feeling  about  gentle  blood, 
not  possessed  by  Smith  and  the  others ;  and  after  a  lit- 
tle intercourse  witli  the  family  of  the  baronet,  and  with 
other  similar  families,  poor  Smith,  Brown,  and  Robinson 
got  so  cliilly  a  reception  at  the  country  house,  and  were 
so  infuriated  by  the  fiequent  mention  and  the  high  lau- 
dation of  the  landed  families  about  (whom  Smith  and 
his  friends  did  iiot  know  at  all),  that  these  old  acquain- 
tances quite  droj)ped  off;  and  the  good  old  oil-merchant 
was  left  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  grapes,  formerly  so 


CERTAIN    GRAPES.  71 

sour  and  now  so  sweet.  It  is  all  in  human  nature. 
You  may  have  known  a  cultivated  man,  with  a  small 
income,  living  in  a  city  of  very  rich  and  not  remarkably 
cultivated  men.  You  may  have  heard  him  speak  with 
much  contempt  of  mere  vulgar  wealth,  and  of  certain 
neiglibors  who  possessed  it.  And  you  felt  how  easily 
that  cultivated  man  might  be  led  to  change  his  tune.  I 
have  witnessed  a  parallel  case.  Once  upon  a  time,  the 
writer  was  walking  along  a  certain  country  road,  a 
walk  of  nine  miles.  lie  overtook  a  little  boy  walking 
along  manfully  by  himself,  —  a  little  fellow  of  seven 
years  old.  The  two  wayfarers  proceeded  together  for 
several  miles,  conversing  of  various  subjects.  It  ap- 
peared, in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  the  little  boy, 
whose  parents  are  very  poor,  never  had  any  pocket- 
money.  I  don  't  believe  he  ever  had  a  penny  to  spend 
hi  all  his  life.  He  stated  that  he  did  not  care  for 
money,  nor  for  the  good  things  (in  a  child's  sense  of 
that  phrase)  which  miglit  be  bought  with  it.  And  part- 
ing from  the  little  man,  I  could  not  but  tip  him  a  shil- 
ling. Every  human  being  who  will  ever  read  this  page 
would  of  course  have  done  the  same.  It  was  his  very 
first  shilling.  He  tried  to  receive  it  with  philosophic 
composure,  as  if  he  did  not  care  a  bit  about  it.  But  he 
tried  with  little  success.  It  was  easy  to  see  how  differ- 
ent a  thing  a  shilling  had  suddenly  grown.  The  grapes 
had  all  at  once  sweetened. 

But  it  is  the  same  way  everywhere.  An  author 
without  popular  estimation  thinks  he  can  do  quite  well 
without  it :  he  does  not  care  for  it.  "  The  world  knows 
nothing  of  its  greatest  men"  ;  nor,  let  us  add,  of  its  best. 
Yet  popular  favor  proves  very  pleasant,  when  it  comes 


72       OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

at  last.  So  a  barrister  witliout  briefs  does  not  want 
them  or  value  tlieni.  t'.ll  they  come.  So  with  tlie  school- 
boy who  does  not  care  for  prizes;  so  with  tlie  student 
at  college  whose  prize  essays  tail,  through  the  incompe- 
tence of  the  judges.  So  (I  fear)  with  the  very  intel- 
lectual preacher  who  would  rather  have  his  church 
empty  than  full,  and  who  (at  present)  thinks  that  only 
the  stupid  and  blinded  are  likely  to  attend  a  church 
where  all  the  seats  are  occupied.  I  have  known  clever 
young  fellows,  more  than  two  or  three,  who  at  a  very 
eai'ly  age  had  outgrown  all  ambition ;  men  who  had  in 
them  the  makings  of  great  things,  but  by  free  choice 
took  to  a  quiet  and  unnoted  life  ;  men  whose  university 
standing  had  been  unrivalled,  but  who  instead  of  aiming 
at  like  eminence  afterwards,  took  to  gardening,  to  ever- 
greens and  grass  and  tiees ;  to  contented  walks  through 
winter  fields ;  to  preaching  to  fifty  rustic  laborers ;  to 
reading  black-letter  books  in  chambers  at  the  Temple, 
instead  of  trying  for  the  Great  Seal ;  quite  happy,  and 
quite  sincere  in  thinking  and  saying  they  did  not  care 
for  more  eminent  places.  But  at  length,  perhaps,  suc- 
ce^-s  and  eminence  come,  and  they  are  very  glad  and 
pleased.  Their  views  of  these  things  are  ([uite  changed. 
They  sec  that  they  can  be  more  useful  than  they  are. 
They  feel  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  indolent  self- 
indulgence  in  the  life  they  had  been  leading;  that 
there  is  more  in  this  life  than  to  practise  a  refined 
Epicureanism,  —  at  least  while  strength  and  spirits 
suffice  for  more.  The  day  may  come,  when  these 
shall  be  worn  out,  and  then  the  old  thing  will  again 
be    plea-ant. 

Let  u«  hear  the  sum  of  the  whole  matter.     If  there 


CERTAIN   GRAPES.  73 

be  anything  in  this  world  which  is  in  its  nature  agree- 
able to  average  humanity,  yet  which  you  think  sour, 
the  likelihood  is,  that,  if  you  got  it,  it  would  grow  sweet. 
You  cannot  finally  turn  out  nature.  Though  you  may 
mow  it  down  very  tightly,  it  will  grow  again,  as  grass 
does  in  the  like  contingency.  And  if  there  he  in  you 
evil  and  unworthy  tendencies,  which  by  God's  grace 
you  have  resolved  to  extirpate,  you  must  keep  a  con- 
stant eye  upon  them.  You  must  knock  them  on  the 
head  not  once  for  all,  but  daily  and  hourly. 

There  are  things,  perhaps,  which  you  know  you  would 
like  so  much,  yet  which  are  so  unattainable,  that  you 
will  not  allow  yourself  to  think  of  them.  That  way  lies 
your  safety.  If  you  allowed  yourself  to  dwell  upon  them, 
and  upon  their  pleasures  and  advantages,  you  would  grow 
discontented  with  what  you  have.  So,  though  you  can- 
not help  sometimes  casting  a  hasty  glance  at  the  clus- 
ter of  grapes,  hanging  high,  which  you  would  like, 
but  which  you  will  never  have,  yet  don't  look  long  at 
it.  Don't  sit  down  and  contemplate  it  for  a  good  while 
from  vai-ious  points  of  view,  and  think  how  much  you 
would  like  it.  That  will  only  make  you  unhappy.  And 
if  you  have  known  this  world  long,  then  you  know  tliis 
about  it,  that  the  thing  you  would  like  best  is  just  the 
last  you  are  ever  likely  to  get.  But  of  this  I  shall  say 
no  more.  I  said  something  like  it  once  before,  and  got 
a  shower  of  long  letters  controverting  it. 

If  a  young  fellow  liails  in  his  profession,  and  then  say 
he  did  not  want  to  succeed,  let  us  believe  him.  He  is 
entitled  to  this.  We  do  him,  in  most  cases,  no  more 
than  justice.  The  grapes  have  indeed  grown  sour,  and 
it  is  a  kind  appointment  of  Providence  that  it  is  so. 
4 


74  OF   THE  SUDDEN   SWEETENING   OF 

But   if  success   should   come  yet,  you  will  find  them 
sweeten  again  surprisingly. 

In  writing  upon  this  subject,  I  have  been  led  to  think 
of  many  things,  and  to  think  of  many  old  acquaintances. 
Not  very  cheerfully  did  tho  writer  trace  out  the  first 
page,  still  less  so  the  last.  How  sadly  short  has  many  a 
one,  of  whom  we  expected  great  tilings,  fallen  of  those 
expectatioDS !  Is  there  one  of  the  clever  boys  and 
thoughtful  lads  that  has  done  as  much  as  we  looked 
for  ?     Not  one. 

The  great  thing,  of  course,  that  resigns  one  to  this, 
and  to  anything  else,  is  the  firm  belief  that  God  orders 
all.  "  It  had  pleased  God  to  form  poor  Ned,  A 
thing  of  idiot  mind,"  wrote  Southey.  There  the  mat- 
ter is  settled.  We  have  not  a  word  more  to  say.  "  I 
was  dumb ;  I  opened  not  my  mouth :  because  Tuou 
didst  it  !" 

"We  have  all  smiled  at  the  fable  of  ^sop,  of  which 
the  writer  has  given  you  the  accurate  version,  and  smiled 
at  many  manifestations  we  have  seen  in  life  showing  its 
truth,  and  showing  us  how  human  nature,  age  after  age, 
abides  the  self-same  thing.  I  believe  it  is  one  of  the 
most  beneficent  arrangements  of  God's  providential  gov- 
ernment, that  the  grapes  we  cannot  reach  grow  sour. 
But  for  that,  this  would  be  a  world  of  turned  heads  and 
broken  hearts.  Who  has  got  the  purple  clusters  he  in 
his  childhood  thouglit  to  get?  Yet  who  (if  a  sensible 
mortal)  cares  ?  You  were  to  have  been  a  laurelled 
hero,  —  you  are  in  fact  a  half-pay  captain,  glad  to  be 
made  adjutant  of  a  militia  regiment.     You  wer«  to  have 


CKRTAIN    GRAPES.  75 

been  Lord  Chancellor  of  Great  Britain,  —  you  are,  in 
fact,  parish  minister  of  Drumsleekie,  with  a  smoky 
manse,  and  heritors  who  oppose  the  augmentation  of 
your  living.  You  were  to  have  lived  in  a  grand  castle, 
possibly  built  of  alternate  blocks  of  gold  and  silver, — 
you  live,  in  fact,  in  a  plain  house  in  a  street,  and  lind  it 
hard  enough  to  pay  the  Christinas  bills.  And  you  were 
to  have  been  buried,  at  last,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  — 
while  in  fact  you  won't.  But  tlie  beauty  has  faded  off 
the  things  never  to  be  attained,  and  the  humble  grapes 
you  could  reach  have  sweetened ;  and  you  are  content. 
Yet  there  are  grapes  which,  if  submitted  to  your  close 
inspection,  would  seem  so  sweet  that  in  comparison  with 
them  those  you  have  would  seem  very  insipid ;  so  you 
may  be  glad  you  will  never  see  those  grapes  too  near 
lior  too  long. 


^^ 


CHAPTER  V. 


CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF  HUMAN  BEINGS. 


HE  otluT  (lay,  talking  with  my  friend  Smith, 
I  iiiciil'iitally  said  something  which  implied 
that  a  certain  individual,  who  may  he  de- 
noted as  Mr.  X,  was  a  distingnishcd  and  in- 
flnential  man.  "Nonsense!"  was  Smilli's  prompt  rei)ly. 
''I  saw  iNIr.  X,"  continued  Smith,  ''at  a  public  met-ting 
yesterday.  He  is  a  gorilla,  —  a  yahoo.  He  is  a  dirty 
and  ugly  party.  I  heard  liim  make  a  speech.  n<;  has 
a  horribly  vulgar  accent,  and  an  awkward,  cubbish  man- 
ner.     In  short,  he  is  not  a  gentleman,  nor  the  least  like 


And  having  said  this,  my  friend  Smith  thought  he 
had  finally  disposed  of  X. 

But  I  replied,  '•  I  grant  fill  that.  All  you  have  said 
about  X  is  true.  Uut  still  I  say  he  is  a  distinguished 
and  influential  man.  a  very  able  man,  —  almost  a  great 
man." 

Smith  was  not  convinced.  He  departed.  I  fear  I 
have  gone  down  in  iiis  estimation.  I  have  not  seen  him 
since.  Perhaps  he  does  not  want  to  see  me.  I  don't 
care. 


CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF  HUMAN  BEINGS.  77 

But  my  frienrl  Smith's  observations  have  made  me 
think  a  good  deal  of  a  tendency  which  is  in  Imraan 
nature.  It  is  very  natural,  if  we  find  a  man  grossly 
deficient  in  something  about  which  we  are  able  to  judge, 
—  and  perhaps  in  the  thing  about  which  we  are  able 
best  to  judge,  —  to  conclude  that  he  must  be  all  bad. 
In  tlie  judgment  of  many,  it  is  quite  enough  to  condemn 
a  man,  to  sliovv  that  he  is  a  low  fellow,  with  an  extremely 
vulgar  accent.  We  forget  how  much  good  may  go  with 
these  evil  things  ;  good  more  than  enough  to  outweigh 
all  these  and  more.  There  is  great  difficulty  in  bringing 
men  heartily  to  admit  the  great  principle  wiiich  may  be 
expressed  in  the  familiar  wonLs, —  For  Better,  for 
Worse.  There  is  great  difficulty  in  bringing  men 
really  to  see  that  excellent  qualities  may  coexist  with 
grave  faults ;  and  that  a  man,  with  very  glaring  defects, 
may  have  so  many  great  and  good  qualities,  as  S(^rve  to 
make  him  a  good  and  eminent  man,  upon  the  balance 
of  tiie  whole  account.  Though  you  can  show  that  A 
owes  a  hundred  thousand  jjounds,  this  docs  not  certainly 
show  that  A  is  a  poor  man.  Possibly  A  may  possess 
five  hundred  thousand  pounds,  and  so  the  balance  may 
be  greatly  in  his  favor. 

We  all  need  to  !)e  reminded  of  this.  It  is  very  plain, 
but  it  is  just  very  plain  things  that  most  of  us  practically 
forget.  There  are  many  folk  who  instantly,  on  discover- 
ing that  A  (iwes  the  hundred  thousand  pounds,  proceed  to 
declai'e  him  a  bankruj)t  without  further  inquiry.  Pos- 
sibly the  debt  A  owes  is  constantly  and  strongly  pressed 
on  your  attention,  while  it  costs  some  investigation  to  be 
assured  of  thf,'  large  capital  he  possesses.  There  is  one 
debt  in  pai'Licular  which,  if  we  find  owed  by  any  man,  it 


78  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

is  hard  to  prevent  ourselves  declaring  him  a  bankrupt 
without  more  investigation.  Great  vulgarity  will  com- 
monly stamp  a  man  in  the  estimation  of  refined  people, 
whatever  his  merits  may  be.  That  is  a  thing  not  to  be 
got  over.  If  u  man  be  deficient  by  ilLot  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds,  all  the  gold  of  Ophir  will  (in  the  judgment 
of  many)  leave  him  poor.  Once  in  my  youth,  I  beheld 
an  eminent  preacher  of  a  certain  small  Christian  sect. 
I  knew  he  was  an  eloquent  orator,  and  that  he  was 
greatly  and  justly  esteemed  by  tlie  members  of  his  own 
little  communion.  I  never  heard  him  speak,  and  never 
beheld  him  save  on  that  one  occasion.  But,  sitting  near 
him  at  a  certain  public  meeting,  I  judged,  from  obvious 
indications,  that  he  never  had  brushed  his  nails  in  his 
life.  I  remember  well  how  disgusted  I  was,  and  how 
hastily  I  rushed  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  no  good 
about  him  at  all.  Those  territorial  and  immemorial 
nails  hid  from  my  youthful  eyes  all  his  excellent  quali- 
ties. Of  course,  tliis  was  because  I  was  very  foolish  and 
inexperienced.  Men  witli  worse  defects  may  be  great 
and  good  upon  the  whole.  Or,  to  return  to  my  analogy, 
no  matter  how  great  a  man's  debts  may  be,  you  must 
not  conclude  he  is  poor  till  you  ascertain  what  his  assets 
are.  These  may  be  so  great  as  to  leave  him  a  rich  man, 
though  he  owes  a  liundred  thousand  pounds. 

The  principle  which  I  desire  to  enforce  is  briefly  this, 
—  that  men  must  be  taken  ^or  better,  for  worse.  There 
may  be  great  drawbacks  about  a  thing,  and  yet  the  thing 
may  be  good.  Many  jjcople  thiidi,  in  a  confused  sort  of 
way,  that  if  you  can  mention  several  serious  objections 
to  taking  a  certain  course,  this  shows  you  should  not  take 
that  course      Not  at  all.     Look  to  the  other  side  of  the 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  79 

acconut.  Possibly  there  are  twice  as  many  and  twice 
as  weighty  objections  to  j^our  not  taking  that  course. 
There  are  things  about  your  friend  Smith  that  you  don't 
like.  They  worry  you.  They  point  to  a  conclusion 
which  might  be  expressed  in  the  following  proposi- 
tion :  — 

Smith  is  bad. 

But  if  you  desire  to  arrive  at  a  just  and  sound  esti- 
mate of  Smith,  your  course  will  be  to  think  of  other 
things  about  Smith,  which  speak  in  a  different  strain 
There  are  things  about  Smith  you  cannot  help  likiuj 
and  respecting  him  for.  And  these  point  to  a  conclusion 
which  a  man  of  a  comprehensive  mind  and  of  considerable 
knowledge  of  the  language  might  express  as  follows  :  — 

Smith   is  good. 

And  having  before  you  the  things  which  may  be 
said  pro  and  con,  it  will  be  your  duty  first  to  count 
them,  and  then  to  weigh  them.  Counting  alone  will 
not  suffice.  For  tliere  may  be  six  things  which  tell 
against  Smith,  and  only  three  in  his  favor  ;  and  yet 
the  three  may  be  justly  entitled  to  be  held  as  outweigh- 
ing the  six.  For  instance,  the  six  things  counting 
against  Smith  may  be  these  :  — 

1.  He  has  a  red  nose. 

2.  He  carries  an  extremely  baggy  cotton  umbrella. 

3.  He  wears  a  shocking  bad  hat. 

4.  When  you  make  any  statement  whatever  in  his 
hearing,  he  immediately  begins  to  prove,  by  argument, 
that  your  statement  cannot  possibly  be  true. 

5.  He  says  tremenduous  when  he  means  tremendous  ; 
and  talks  of  a  prizenter  when  he  means  a  precetitor. 


80  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

6.  He  is  constantly  saying,  "  How  very  curious ! " 
also,  "  Goodness  gracious  !  " 

Whereas  the  three  things  making  in  Smith's  favor 
may  be  these  :  — 

1.  He  has  the. kindest  of  hearts. 

2.  He  lias  the  clearest  of  heads. 

3.  He  is  truth  and  honor  impersonate. 

Now,  if  the  account  stand  tlms,  the  balance  is  un- 
questionably in  Smith's  favor.  And  it  is  so  with 
everything  else  as  well  as  with  Smith.  When  you 
change  to  a  new  and  better  house,  it  is  not  all  gain.  It 
is  gain  on  the  whole ;  but  there  may  be  some  respects 
in  which  the  old  house  was  better  than  the  new.  And 
when  you  are  getting  on  in  life,  it  is  not  all  going 
forward.  In  some  respects  it  may  be  going  back.  It 
is  an  advance,  on  the  whole,  when  the  attorney-general 
becomes  chancellor;  yet  there  were  pleasant  things 
about  the  other  way  too,  which  the  chancellor  misses. 
It  is,  to  most  men,  a  gain  on  the  whole  to  leave  a 
beautiful  rectory  for  a  bishop's  palace ;  yet  the  change 
has  its  disadvantages  too,  and  some  pleasant  tlihigs  are 
lost.  When  Bishop  Poore,  who  founded  Salisbury 
Cathedral  in  the  thirteenth  century,  left  his  magnificent 
church  amid  its  sweet  English  scenery,  to  be  bishop  of 
the  bleak  northern  diocese  of  Durham,  he  must  have 
felt  he  was  sacrificing  a  great  deal.  Yet  to  be  Bishop 
of  Durliain  in  tliose  days  Avas  to  be  a  Prince  of  the 
Church,  with  a  Prince's  revenue :  and  so  Bishop  Poore 
was,  on  the  whole,  content  lo  go.  I  daresay  in  the 
thirteen  years  he  lived  at  Durham  before  he  died,  he 
often  wondered  whether  he  had  not  done  wrong. 

You   will  find  men  who  are  good  classical  scholars 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  81 

ready  to  think  it  extinguishes  a  man  wholly  to  show 
that  he  is  grossly  ignorant  of  Latin  and  Greek.  It  is 
to  be  granted,  no  doubt,  that  as  a  classical  training  is  an 
essential  part  of  a  liberal  education,  the  lack  of  it  is  a 
symptomatic  thing,  like  a  man  dropping  his  h's.  He 
must  be  a  vulgar  man  who  talks  about  his  Ouse  and  his 
Hoaks.  And  even  so,  to  write  about  rem  quomodo  rem, 
as  an  eminent  divine  has  done,  raises  awful  suspicions. 
So  it  is  with  made  estate  puer.  Still,  we  may  build  too 
much  on  such  things.  By  a  careful  study  of  English 
models,  a  man  may  come  to  have  a  certain  measure  of 
classical  taste  and  sensibility,  though  he  could  not  con- 
strue a  chance  page  of  vl^schylus  or  Thucydides,  or  even 
an  ode  of  Horace.  Yet  you  will  never  prevent  many 
scholars  from  sometimes  throwing  in  such  a  man's  face 
his  lack  of  Latin  and  Greek,  as  though  that  utterly 
wiped  him  out.  I  cannot  but  confess,  indeed,  that  there 
is  no  single  fact  which  goes  more  fatally  to  the  question, 
whether  a  man  can  claim  to  be  a  really  educated  person, 
than  the  manifest  want  of  scholarship  ;  all  I  say  is,  that 
too  much  may  be  made  of  even  this.  You  know  that  a 
false  quantity  in  a  Latin  quotation  in  a  speech  in 
Parliament  can  never  be  quite  got  over.  It  stamps  the 
unfortunate  individual  who  makes  it.  He  may  have 
many  excellent  qualities,  many  things  of  much  more 
substantial  worth  than  the  power  of  writing  alcaics  ever 
so  fluently,  yet  tlie  suspicion  of  the  want  of  the  educa- 
tion of  a  gentleman  will  brand  him.  Yet  Paley  was  a 
great  man,  though,  when  he  went  to  Cambridge  to 
take  his  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity,  in  the  Concio  ad 
Cleritm  he  preached  on  that  occasion,  he  pronounced 
profugus,  profuffus.  A  sliower  of  epigrams  followed 
4*  r 


82  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

Many  a  man,  incomparably  inferior  to  Paley  on  tlie 
whole,  iult  his  superiority  to  Paley  in  the  one  matter 
of  scholarship.  Here  was  a  joint  in  the  great  man's 
armor,  at  which  it  was  easy  to  stick  in  a  pin.  Lockhart, 
too,  was  a  very  fair  scholar,  though  you  read  at  Abbots- 
ford,  above  the  great  dog's  grave,  certain  lines  which 
he  wrote : — 

"  Maidae  marmorea  dermis  sub  imagine,  Maida, 
Ad  januam  Domini.     Sit  tibi  terra  levis  !  " 

You  will  find  it  difficult,  if  you  possess  a  fair  acquaint- 
ance with  the  literature  of  your  own  country,  to  sup- 
press some  little  feelings  of  contempt  for  a  man  whose 
place  in  life  should  be  warrant  that  he  is  an  educated 
man,  yet  who  is  blankly  ignorant  of  the  worthy  books  in 
even  his  own  language.  Yet  you  may  find  highly  re- 
spectable folk  in  that  condition  of  ignorance;  —  medical 
men  in  large  practice  ;  country  attorneys,  growing  yearly 
in  wealth  as  their  clients  are  growing  poorer ;  clerg}'- 
men,  very  diligent  as  parish  priests,  and  not  unversed  in 
theology,  if  versed  in  little  else.  I  have  heard  of  a 
highly  re-*pectable  divine,  of  no  small  standing  as  a 
preacher,  who  never  had  heard  of  the  Spectator  (I  mean, 
of  course,  Steele  and  Addison's  Spectator),  at  a  period 
very  near  the  close  of  his  life.  And  certain  of  his 
neighbors,  who  willingly  laughed  at  tliat  good  man's 
ignorance,  were  but  one  degree  ahead  of  him  in  literary 
information.  They  knew  tlie  Spectator,  but  they  had 
never  heard  of  Mr.  Kuskin  nor  of  Lord  Macaulay. 
Still,  they  could  do  the  work  which  it  was  their  busi- 
ness to  do,  very  reputably.  And  t/tat  is  the  great  thing 
after  ail. 


HUilAN  BEINGS.  83 

The  truth  is,  that  the  tendency  in  a  good  scholar  to 
despise  a  naan  devoid  of  scliolarship,  and  the  tendency  in 
a  well-read  man  to  despise  one  who  has  read  little  or 
nothing  besides  the  newspapers,  is  just  a  more  dignified 
development  of  that  impulse  which  is  in  all  human 
beings  to  think  A  or  B  very  ignorant,  if  A  or  B  be  un- 
acquainted Avith  things  which  the  human  beings  first 
named  know  well.  I  have  heard  a  gardener  say,  with 
no  small  contempt,  of  a  certain  eminent  scholar,  "  Ah, 
he  knows  nothing ;  he  does  not  know  the  difference  be- 
tween an  arbutus  and  a  juniper."  Possibly  you  have 
heard  a  sailor  say  of  some  indefinite  person,  "  He  knows 
nothing;  he  does  not  know  the  foretop  from  the  bin- 
nacle." I  have  heard  an  architect  say  of  a  certain  man, 
to  whom  he  had  shown  a  certain  noble  church,  "  Why, 
the  fellow  did  not  know  the  chancel  from  the  transept." 
And  although  the  architect,  being  an  educated  man,  did 
not  add  that  the  fellow  knew  nothing,  that  was  certainly 
vaguely  suggested  by  what  he  said.  A  musician  tells 
you,  as  something  which  finally  disposes  of  a  fellow- 
creature,  that  he  does  not  know  the  difierence  between 
a  fugue  and  a  madrigal.  I  remember  somewhat  despis- 
ing a  distinguished  classical  professor,  who  read  out  a 
passage  of  Milton  to  be  turned  into  heroic  Latin  verse. 
One  line  was,  — 

"  Fled  and  pursued  transyerse  the  resonant  fugue  "; 

which  the  eminent  man  made  an  Alexandrine,  by  pro- 
nouncing fugue  in  two  syllaljles,  as  fkwgew.  In  fact, 
if  you  find  a  man  decidedly  below  you  in  any  one  thing, 
if  it  were  only  in  the  knowledge  how  to  pronounce 
fugue,  you  feel  a  strong  impulse  to  desi>ise  him  on  the 


84  COXCKKNIXG   THE  ESTIMATE   OF 

whole,  and  to  judge   that  he   stands   below   you  alto- 
gether.     % 

Probably  tlie  mo?t  common  eiTor  in  the  estimate  of 
human  beings,  is  one  already  named  ;  it  is,  to  tliink 
meanly  of"  a  man  if  you  find  him  plainly  not  a  gentle- 
man. And  I  have  pi-esent  to  my  mind  now  a  case 
Avhicli  we  h;ive  all  probably  witnessed;  namely,  a  t^ct  of 
empty-headed  puppies,  of  distinguished  aspect  and  lan- 
guid address,  imperfectly  able  to  spell  the  English  lan- 
guage, and  incapable  of  anything  but  the  emptiest  badi- 
nage in  the  respect  of  conversation,  yet  expressing  thei'* 
supreme  contemj)t  for  a  truly  good  man,  who  may  have 
shown  himself  ignorant  of  the  usages  of  society.  You 
remember  how  Brummell  mentioned  it  as  a  fact  quite 
sufficient  to  extinguisli  a  man,  that  he  was  "  a  person 
who  would  send  his  plate  twice  for  soup."  The  judg- 
ment entertained  by  Brunmiell,  or  by  any  one  like 
Brummell,  is  really  not  worth  a  moment's  consideration. 
1  think  of  the  difficulty  which  good  and  sensible  people 
feel,  in  believing  the  existence  of  sterling  merit  along 
with  offensive  ignorance  and  vulgarity.  Yet  a  man 
whom  no  one  could  mistake  for  a  gentleman  may  have 
great  ability,  great  eloquence  in  his  own  way,  great 
influence  willi  the  people,  great  weight  even  with  culti- 
vated folk.  I  am  not  going  to  indicate  localities  or  men- 
tion names,  though  I  very  easily  could.  No  doubt,  it  is 
irritating  to  meet  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  to  find  him  a  vulgar  vaporer.  Yet,  with  all  that, 
he  may  be  a  very  fit  man  to  be  in  Parliament  ;  and  he 
may  liave  considerable  authority  there,  when  he  sticks 
to  matters  he  can  understand.  And  if  refined  and  schol- 
arly folk  think  to  set  such  a  one  aside,  by  mentioning 


I 


HUMAISI   BEINGS.  85 

that   he   cannot  read  Thucydides,  they  will  lind  them-, 
selves  mistaken. 

It  is  to  many  a  very  bitter  pill  to  swallow,  a  very 
disagreeable  thing  to  make  up  one's  mind  to,  yet  a  thing 
to  which  the  logic  of  facts  compels  every  wise  man  to 
make  up  his  mind,  that  in  tliese  days  men  whose  fea- 
tures, manners,  accent,  entire  ways  of  thinking  and 
speaking,  testify  to  their  extreme  vulgarity,  have  yet 
great  influence  with  large  masses  of  mankind.  And  it 
is  quite  vain  for  cultivated  folk  to  think  to  ignore  such. 
]Men  grossly  ignorant  of  history,  of  literature,  of  the 
classics,  men  who  never  brushed  their  nails,  men  who 
don't  know  when  to  wear  a  dress-coat  and  when  a  frock, 
may  gain  gi-eat  popularity  and  standing  with  a  great 
part  of  tlie  population  of  Great  Britain.  Their  vul- 
garity may  form  a  high  recommendation  to  the  people 
Avith  whom  they  ai'e  popular.  It  would  be  easy  to 
point  out  places  where  anything  like  refinement  or  cul- 
tivation would  be  a  positive  hindrance  to  a  man.  Let 
not  blocks  be  cut  with  razors.  Let  not  coals  be  carried 
in  gilded  chariots.  Roughei-  means  will  be  more  ser- 
viceable ;  and  if  people  of  great  cultivation  say,  "  A  set 
of  vulgar  fellows,  not  worth  thinking  of" ;  and  refuse  to 
see  the  work  such  men  are  doing,  and  to  counteract  it 
where  its  eifeets  aie  evil ;  those  cultivated  people  will 
some  day  regret  it.  I  occasionally  see  a  periodical  pub- 
lication, containing  tlie  portraits  of  men  who  are  esteemed 
eminent  by  a  certain  class  of  human  beings.  JNIost  of 
those  men  are  extremtdy  ugly,  and  all  of  them  extremely 
vulgar-looking.  The  natural  impulse  is  to  throw  the 
coarse  effigies  aside,  and  to  judge  that  such  persons  can 
do  but  little,  either  for  good  or  ill.     But  if  you   incpiire, 


8b  CONCERNING   THE   ESTIMATE   OF 

you  will  fiiul  they  are  doing  a  great  work,  and  wielding 
a  great  influence  with  a  very  large  section  of  the  popu- 
lation ;  the  work  and  influence  being,  in  my  judgment,  of 
the  most  mischievous  and  ])6rilous  character. 

Then  a  truth  very  much  to  be  remembered  is,  that 
the  fact  of  a  man's  doing  something  conspicuously  and 
extremely  ill  is  no  proof  whatsoever  that  he  is  a  stupid 
man.  To  many  peoi)le  it  appears  as  if  it  were  such  a 
proof,  simply  because  their  ideas  are  so  ill-defined.  If 
a  clergyman  ride  on  horseback  very  badly,  he  had  much 
better  not  do  so  in  the  presence  of  his  humbler  parish- 
ioners. The  esteem  in  which  they  hold  his  sermons  will 
be  sensibly  diminished  by  the  recollection  of  having 
seen  him  i*oll  itrnoininiously  out  of  the  saddle,  and  into 
the  ditch.  Still,  in  severe  logic,  it  must  be  apparent 
that  if  the  sermons  be  good  in  themselves,  the  bad 
horsemanship  touches  them  not  at  all.  It  comes  merely 
to  this,  —  that  if  you  take  a  man  off  his  proper  ground, 
he  may  make  a  very  poor  appearance  ;  while  on  his 
proper  ground,  he  would  make  a  very  good  one.  A 
swan  is  extremely  graceful  in  the  water  ;  the  same 
animal  is  extremely  awkward  on  land.  I  have  thought 
of  a  swan  clumsily  waddling  along  on  legs  that  cannot 
support  its  weight,  wlien  I  liave  witnessed  a  great  scliolar 
trying  to  make  a  speech  on  a  platform,  and  speaking 
miserably  ill.  The  great  scholar  had  left  his  own  ele- 
ment, wheie  lie  w as  graceful  and  at  ease ;  he  had  come 
to  another,  which  did  not  by  any  means  suit  him.  And 
while  he  floundered  and  stammered  through  his  wretched 
little  speech,  I  have  beheld  fluent  empty-pates  grinning 
with  joy  at  the  badness  of  his  appearance.  They  had 
got  the  great  scholar  to  race  with  them ;  they  in  their 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  87 

own  element,  and  he  out  of  his.  They  had  got  him 
into  a  duel,  giving  them  the  choice  of  weapons  ;  and 
having  beat  him  (as  logicians  say),  secundum  quid,  they 
plainly  thought  they  had  beat  him  siinpliciter.  You 
may  have  been  amused  at  the  artifices  by  which  men, 
not  good  at  anything  but  very  fluent  speaking,  try  to 
induce  people,  infinitely  superior  to  them  in  every  re- 
spect save  that  one,  to  make  fools  of  themselves  by 
miserable  attempts  at  that  one  thing  they  could  not  do. 
The  fluent  speakers  thought,  in  fact,  to  tempt  the  swan 
out  of  the  water.  The  swan,  if  wise,  will  decline  to 
come  out  of  the  water. 

I  have  beheld  a  famous  anatomist  carving  a  goose. 
lie  did  it  very  ill.  And  the  ftiith  of  the  assembled 
company  in  his  knowledge  of  anatomy  was  manifestly 
shaken.  You  may  have  seen  a  great  and  solemn  phi- 
losopher seeking  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  a  knot 
of  pretty  young  girls  in  a  drawing-room.  The  great 
philosoi)her  failed  in  his  anxious  endeavors,  while  a 
brainless  cornet  succeeded  to  perfection.  Yet  though 
the  cornet  eclipsed  the  philoso[)her  in  this  one  respect, 
it  would  be  unjust  to  say  that,  on  the  whole,  the  coi'net 
was  the  ])hilosopher's  supeiior.  I  have  beheld  a  pious 
and  amiable  man  playing  at  croquet.  lie  j)layed  fright- 
fully ilL  lie  made  himself  an  object  of  universal  deri- 
sion ;  and  he  brought  all  his  good  qualities  into  grave 
suspicion,  in  the  estimation  of  the  gay  young  people 
with  whom  he  played.  Yes,  let  me  recur  to  my  great 
principle, — no  clergyman  should  ever  hazard  his  gen- 
eral usefulness  by  doing  anything  whatsoever  signally 
ill  in  the  presence  of  his  parishioners.  If  he  have  not  a 
good  horse,  and  do  not  ride  well,  let  him  not  ride  at  all. 


88  CONCERNING   THE  ESTIMATE   OF 

And  if,  living  in  Scotland,  he  be  a  curler ;  or,  living  in 
England,  join  in  the  sports  of  his  people ;  though 
it  be  not  desirable  that  he  should  display  pre-eminent 
skill  or  agility,  he  ought  to  be  a  good  player,  —  above 
the  average. 

It  is  an  interesting  thing  to  see  how  habitually,  in 
this  world,  excellence  in  one  respect  is  balanced  by  in- 
feriority in  another ;  how  needful  it  is,  if  you  desire  to 
form  a  fair  judgment,  to  take  men  for  better,  for  worse. 
I  have  oftentimes  beheld  the  ecclesiastics  of  a  certain 
renowned  country  assembled  in  their  great  councU  to 
legislate  on  church  affairs.  And,  sitting  mute  on 
back  benclies,  never  dreaming  of  opening  their  lips,  — 
pictures  of  helplessness  and  sheepishness,  —  I  have  be- 
held the  best  preachers  of  that  renowned  country :  I 
am  not  going  to  mention  their  names.  Meanwhile, 
sitting  in  prominent  places,  speaking  frequently  and 
lengthily,  speaking  in  one  or  two  cases  with  great  pith 
and  eloquence,  I  have  beheld  other  preachers,  whose 
power  of  emptying  the  pews  of  whatever  church  they 
might  serve  had  been  established  beyond  question  by 
repeated  trials.  Yet,  by  tacit  consent,  these  dreary  ora- 
tors were  admitted  as  the  church's  legislators ;  and,  in 
many  cases,  not  unjustly.  There  is  a  grander  church, 
in  a  larger  country,  in  which  the  lilie  balance  of  facul- 
ties may  be  perceived  to  exist.  The  greater  clergymen 
of  that  church  are  entitled  bishops.  Now,  by  the  public 
at  large,  the  bishops  are  regarded  in  the  broad  light  of 
the  chief  men  of  the  church ;  that  is,  the  greatest  and 
most  distinguished  men.  Next,  the  thing  as  regards 
which  the  general  public  can  best  judge  of  a  clergyman 
is  his  preachmg.     The  general  public,  therefore,  regard 


II 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  89 

the  best  preachers  as  tlie  most  eminent  clergymen.  But 
the  qualities  which  go  to  make  a  good  bishop  are  quite 
difFerent  from  those  which  go  to  make  a  great  preacher. 
Prudence,  administrative  tact,  kindliness,  wide  sympa- 
thies, are  desirable  in  a  bishop.  None  of  these  things 
can  be  brought  to  the  simple  test  of  the  goodness  of  a 
man's  sermon.  Indeed,  the  fiery  qualities  which  go  to 
make  a  great  preacher  do  positively  unfit  a  man  for 
being  a  bishop.  From  all  this  comes  an  unhappy  an- 
tagonism between  the  general  way  of  thinking  as  to 
who  should  be  bishops,  and  the  way  in  which  the  people 
who  select  bishops  think.  And  the  general  public  is 
often  scandalized  by  liearing  that  this  man  and  the 
other,  whom  they  never  heard  of,  or  whom  they  know 
to  be  a  very  dull  preacher,  is  made  a  bishop ;  while  this 
or  that  man,  who  charms  and  edifies  them  by  his  admi- 
rable sermons,  is  passed  over.  For  the  tendency  is  in- 
veterate with  ill-cultivated  folk,  to  think  that  if  a  man 
be  very  good  at  anything  he  must  be  very  good  at  every- 
thing. And  with  uneducated  folk,  the  disposition  is  al- 
most ineradicable,  to  conclude  that  if  you  are  very  igno- 
rant on  some  subject  they  know,  you  know  nothing ;  and 
that  if  you  do  very  ill  something  as  to  which  they  can 
judge,  you  can  do  nothing  at  all  well.  Pitt  said  of 
Lord  Nelson,  that  the  great  admiral  was  the  greatest 
fool  he  ever  knew,  when  on  shore.  A  less  wise  man 
than  Pitt,  judging  Nelson  a  very  great  fool  on  shore, 
would  have  hurried  to  the  conclusion  that  Nelson  was  a 
fool  everywhere  and  altogether.  And  Nelson  himself 
showed  his  wisdom,  when  informed  of  what  Pitt  had 
said.  "  Quite  true,"  said  Nelson  ;  "  but  I  should  soon 
prove  Pitt  a  fool  if  I  had  him  on  board  a  ship."     It 


90  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE   OF 

may,  indeed,  be  esteemed  as  certain  that  Pitt's  strong 
common-sense  would  not  have  failed  him,  even  at  sea  ; 
but  when  he  was  rolling  about  in  deadly  sea-sickness, 
and  testifying  twenty  times  in  an  hour  his  ignorance  of 
nautical  affairs,  it  may  be  esteemed  as  equally  certain 
that  the  sailors  would  have  regarded  him  as  a  fool. 

I  have  heard  vulgar,  self-sufficient  people  in  a  countiy 
parish  relate  witli  great  delight  instances  of  absence  of 
mind  and  of  lack  of  ordinary  sense,  on  the  part  of  a 
good  old  clergyman  of  great  theological  learning,  who 
was  for  many  years  the  incumbent  of  that  parish.  A 
thoughtful  person  would  be  interested  in  remarking 
instances  in  which  an  able  and  learned  man  proved 
himself  little  better  than  a  baby.  But  it  was  not  for 
the  psychological  interest  that  those  people  related  their 
vvretclied  little  bits  of  ill-set  gossip.  It  was  for  the  pur- 
pose of  conveying,  by  innuendo,  that  there  was  no  good 
about  that  simple  old  man  at  all ;  that  he  was,  in  fact, 
a  fool  sinipliciler.  But  if  you,  learned  reader,  had  taken 
that  old  man  on  his  own  ground,  you  would  liave  discov- 
ered that  he  was  anything  but  a  fool.  "  What 's  the  use 
of  all  your  learning,"  his  vulgar  and  ignorant  wife  was 
wont  to  say  to  him,  "  if  you  don't  know  how  to  ride  on 
horseback,  and  how  turnips  should  be  sown  after 
wheat  ?  " 

You  may  remember  an  interesting  instance,  in  the 
Life  of  George  Slepltoison,  of  two  great  men  supple- 
menting each  the  other's  defects.  George  Stephenson 
was  arguing  a  scientific  point  with  a  fluent  talker  who 
knew  very  little  about  tiie  matter;  but  thougli  Steplien- 
son's  knowledge  of  tlie  subject  was  great,  and  his  opin- 
ions sound,  he  was  thoroughly  reduced  to  silence.     Ho 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  91 

had  no  command  of  language  or  argument.  He  had  a 
good  case,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  conduct  it.  But 
all  this  hajipened  at  a  country-house  where  Sir  William 
Follett  was  likewise  staying.  Follett  saw  that  Stephen- 
son was  right,  and  he  was  impatient  of  the  triumph  of 
the  fluent  talker.  Follett,  of  course,  had  magnificent 
])Owers  of  argument,  but  he  had  no  knowledge  whatever 
of  the  matter  under  discussion.  But,  privately  getting 
hold  of  Stephenson,  Follett  got  Stephenson  to  coach 
him  up  in  the  facts  of  tlie  case.  Next  day,  the  great 
advocate  led  the  conversation  once  more  to  the  disputed 
question  ;  and  now  Stephenson's  knowledge  and  FoUett's 
logic  combined  smashed  the  fluent  talker  of  yesterday 
to  atoms. 

•  Themistocles,  every  one  knows,  could  not  fiddle,  but 
he  could  make  a  little  city  a  big  one.  Yet  the  people 
who  distinctly  saw  he  could  not  fiddle  were  many,  while 
those  who  discerned  his  competence  in  the  other  direc- 
tion were  few.  So,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  many  peo- 
ple despised  him  for  his  bad  fiddling,  failing  to  remark 
that  it  was  not  his  vocation  to  fiddle.  Goldsmith  wrote 
T/ie  Vicar  of  Wakefidd  and  71ie  Good-natured  Man  ; 
yet  he  felt  indignant  at  the  admiration  bestowed  by  a 
company  of.his  acquaintances  upon  the  agility  of  a  mon- 
key ;  and,  starting  up  in  anger  and  impatience,  ex- 
claimed, "  I  could  do  all  that  myself. "  I  have  heard 
of  a  very  great  logician  and  divine,  who  was  dissatisfied 
that  a  trained  gymnast  should  excel  him  in  feats  of 
strength,  and  who  insisted  on  doing  the  gymnast's  feats 
himself;  and,  strange  to  say,  he  actually  did  them. 
Wise  men  would  not  have  thought  the  less  of  him 
though  he  had  failed ;  but  it  is  certain  that  many  aver- 


92  COXCERXING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

age  people  thouglit  the  more  of  him  because  he  suo 
ceeded. 

There  are  single  acts  which  may  justly  be  held  a3 
symptomatic  of"  a  man's  whole  nature ;  for,  thougli  done 
in  a  short  time,  they  are  the  manifestation  of  ways  of 
thinking  and  feeling  which  have  lasted  through  a  long 
time.  To  have  written  two  or  three  malignant  anouy- 
inous  letters  may  be  regarded  as  branding  a  man  finally. 
To  have  only  once  tried  to  stab  a  man  in  the  back  may 
justly  raise  some  suspicion  of  a  man's  candor  and  hon- 
esty ever  after.  You  know,  my  reader,  that  if  A  poi- 
sons only  one  fellow  creature,  the  laws  of  our  country 
esteem  that  single  deed  as  so  symptomatic  of  A's  whole 
character,  that  they  found  upon  it  the  general  conclusion* 
that  A  is  not  a  safe  member  of  society ;  and  so,  with  all 
but  universal  approval,  they  hang  A.  Still  the  doing 
of  one  or  two  very  malicious  and  dishonorable  actions 
may  not  indicate  that  a  man  is  wholly  dishonorable  and 
malicious.  These  may  be  no  more  than  an  outburst  of 
the  bad  which  is  in  every  man,  cleared  off  thus,  as 
electricity  is  taken  out  of  the  atmosphere  by  a  good 
thunder-storm.  I  am  not  sure  what  I  ouglit,  in  fairness, 
to  think  of  a  certain  individual,  describing  lymself  as  a 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  who  has  formed 
an  unfavorable  opinion  of  tlie  compositions  of  the  pres- 
ent writer,  and  who,  every  now  and  tlien,  sends  me  an 
aiionymous  letter.  It  is.  indeed,  a  curious  question, 
how  a  human  being  can  deliberately  sit  down  and  spend 
a  good  deal  of  time  in  writing  eight  rather  close  pages 
of  anonymous  matter  of  an  unfriendly,  not  to  say  abu- 
sive character,  and  then  send  it  off  to  a  man  who  is  a 


I 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  93 

total  stranger.  Wliat  are  we  to  think  of  this  individ- 
ual? Are  we  to  think  favorably  of  him  as  a  clergy- 
man and  as  a  gentleman  ?  He  has  sent  me  a  good 
many  letters ;  and  I  shall  give  you  some  extracts  from 
the  last.  For  the  sake  of  argument,  let  it  be  said  thai 
my  name  is  Jones.  I  am  a  clergyman  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church  in  a  certain  county.  But  my  corre- 
spondent phunly  thinks  it  a  strong  point  to  call  me  a 
Dissenter,  which  he  does  several  times  in  each  of  his 
letters.  Of  course,  he  knows  that  I  am  not  a  Dis- 
senter ;  but  this  mode  of  address  seems  to  please  him. 
I  give  you  the  passages  from  his  last  letter  verbatim, 
only  substituting  Jones  for  another  name,  of  no  interest 
to  anybody :  — 

Rev.  Jones  (Dissenting  Preacher)  :  — 

I  have  read  your  S-^rmons  from  curiosity.  They  ex- 
hibit your  invincible  conceit,  like  all  your  other  works. 
Tour  notion  as  to  the  resurrection  of  the  old  body  is 
utterly  exploded,  except  amongst  such  divines  as  Dr. 
Gumming  (who  is  not  eminent,  as  you  assert),  and  simi- 
lar riff-raff. 

There  is  now-a-days  no  Sabbatli.  The  Scotch,  who 
talk  of  a  "  Sabbath,"  are  fools  and  ignorant  fanatics.  I 
am  glad  to  see  that  you,  Jones,  were  well  castigated  by 
a  London  paper  for  lending  your  name  to  a  hateful 
crusade  of  certain  fanatics  in  Edinburgh  (including  the 
odious  Guthrie),  against  opening  the  parks  to  the  people 
on  Sunday.  I  intend  to  visit  P2dinburgli  or  Ghasgow 
Bome  Sunday,  and  to  walk  about,  as  a  clergyman,  be- 
tween the  services,  with  some  little  ostentation,  in  order 
to  show  my   contempt  of  the  local  custom.     Let  any 


94  CONCERNING   THE  ESTIMATE   OF 

low  Scotch  Presbyterian  lay  hands  on  me  at  his  peril ! 
Ah,  Jones,  you  eviilently  dare  not  say  your  soul  is  your 
own  in  Scotland ! 

Neither  Caird  nor  Gumming  are  men  of  first-rate 
ability.  Gumming  is  a  mere  dunce,  not  even  literate. 
How  can  you  talk  of  understanding  the  works  of  Mr. 
Maurice  ?  Of  course  not :  you  are  too  low-minded  and 
narrow-souled !  But  do  not  dare  to  disparage  such  ex- 
alted merit.  Say  you  are  a  fool,  and  blind,  and  we  may 
excuse  you. 

You  are  clearly  unable  to  appreciate  excellence  of 
any  kind.  Your  assertion,  that  the  doctrines  of  the 
Ghurch,  our  Ghurch,  are  Cahnm'stic,  is  a  false  one. 
Calvinism  is  now  confined  to  illiterate  tinkers.  Dissent- 
ers, Puritans,  and  low  Scotch  Presbyterians. 

Your  constant  use  of  the  phrase,  "  My  friends,"  in 
your  sermons,  is  bad  and  affected.  We  are  not  your 
"friends";  and  you  care  nothing  for  your  hearers,  ex- 
cept to  gain  their  applause  ! 

I  remain,  Sir  Jones,  with  no  veri/  great  respect, 
Your  obedient  servant, 

P.  A. 

P.  S.  —  Poor  A.  K.  II.  B.     Why  not  A.  S.  S.  I 

Now,  my  reader,  how  shall  we  estimate  the  man  that 
wrote  this  ?  Can  he  be  a  gentleman  ?  Can  he  be  a 
clergyman  ?  I  have  received  from  him  a  good  many 
letters  of  the  same  kind,  which  I  have  destroyed,  or  I 
might  have  culled  from  them  still  more  remarkable 
flowers  of  rhetoric.  In  a  recent  letter  he  drew  a  very 
unfavorable  comparison  between  the  present  writer  and 
the  author  of  Friends  in  Council.     In  that  unfavorable 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  95 

comparison  I  heartily  concur ;  but  it  may  be  satisfactory 
to  Mr.  P.  A.  to  know  that  immediately  after  receiving 
his  letter  I  was  conversing  with  the  author  of  F/iends 
in  Council^  and  that  I  read  his  letter  to  my  revered 
friend.  And  I  do  not  think  Mr.  P.  A.  would  have  been 
gratified  if  he  had  heard  the  opinion  which  the  author 
of  Friends  in  Council  expressed  of  P.  A.  upon  the 
strength  of  that  one  letter.  Let  us  do  P.  A.  justice. 
For  a  long  time  he  sent  his  anonymous  letters  unpaid, 
and  each  of  them  cost  me  twopence.  For  some  time 
past  he  has  paid  his  postages.  Now  this  is  an  improve- 
ment. The  next  step  in  advance  which,  remains  for  P. 
A.  is  to  cease  wholly  from  writing  anonymous  letters. 

Now  to  conclude :  — 

There  is  great  difiiculty  in  estimating  human  beings ; 
that  is,  in  placing  them  (in  the  racing  sense)  in  your 
own  mind.  And  the  difficulty  comes  of  this,  that  you 
have  to  take  a  conjunct  view  of  a  man's  deservings  and. 
ill-deservings ;  the  man's  merit  is  the  resultant  of  all 
his  qualities,  good  and  bad.  In  a  race  the  comparison 
is  brought  to  the  single  point  of  speed,  —  or,  more  accu- 
rately speaking,  to  the  test,  which  horse  shall,  on  a  given 
day,  pass  the  winning-post  lirst.  Fvery  one  understands 
the  issue ;  and  the  prize  goes  on  just  the  one  considera- 
tion. Great  confusion  and  difficulty  would  arise  if 
other  issues  were  brought  in ;  as  ibr  instance,  if  a  man 
were  permitted  to  say  to  the  owner  of  the  winner, 
"You  have  passed  tlie  post  first,  but  then  my  horse  has 
the  longest  tail,  and,  upon  the  strengtli  of  that  fact,  I 
claim  the  cup."  Yet,  in  placing  human  beings  (men- 
tally) for  the  race  of  life,  the  case  is  just  so.     You  are 


96  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

making  up  yoiu'  mind,  "  Is  this  man  eminent  or  ob- 
scure ?  is  he  deserving  or  not  ?  is  he  good  or  bad  ? " 
But  there  is  no  one  issue  to  which  you  can  rightly  bring 
his  merits.  He  may  exhibit  extraordinary  sk'dl  and 
ability  in  doing  some  one  thing ;  but  a  host  of  little 
disturbing  circumstances  may  come  to  perplex  your 
judgment.  Mr.  Green  was  a  good  scholar  and  a  clever 
fellow;  yet  I  have  heard  Mr.  Brown  say,  "  Green!  ah, 
he's  a  beast !  Do  you  know,  he  told  me  he  always 
studies  without  shoes  and  stockings!"  And  then  there 
is  a  difficulty  in  saying  what  importance  ought  to  be 
attached  to  those  disturbing  causes,  as  well  as  whether 
they  exist  or  not.  One  man  thinks  a  long  tail  a  great 
beauty,  another  attaches  no  consequence  to  a  long  tail. 
One  man  concludes  that  Mr.  Green  is  a  beast  because 
he  studies  without  shoes  or  stockings ;  another  holds 
that  as  an  indifferent  circumstance,  not  affecting  his  esti- 
mate of  Green.  I  fear  we  can  come  to  no  more  satis- 
factory conclusion  than  this,  —  that  of  Green,  and  of 
each  human  bemg,  there  are  likely  to  be  just  as  many 
different  estimates  as  there  are  people  who  will  take  the 
trouble  of  forming  an  estimate  of  them  at  all. 

You  will  remark,  1  have  been  sjjeaking  of  estimates, 
honestly  formed  and  honestly  expressed.  No  doubt  we 
often  hear  and  often  read  estimates  of  men,  which  esti- 
mates have  been  plainly  disturbed  by  other  forces.  No 
wise  man  will  attach  much  weight  to  the  estimate  of  a 
successful  man,  wliich  is  expressed  by  a  not  very  mag- 
nanimous man  whom  he  has  beaten.  If  A  sends  an  article 
to  a  magazine,  and  has  it  rejected,  he  is  not  a  competent 
judge  of  the  merit  of  the  articles  which  appear  in  that 
number  in  which  he  wislied  his  to  be.     You  would  not 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  97 

ask  for  a  fair  estimate  of  IMiss  Y's  singing  from  a  young 
lady  who  tries  to  sing  as  well  and  fails.  You  would  not 
expect  a  very  reliable  estimate  of  a  young  barrister,  get- 
ting into  great  practice,  from  poor  Mr.  Bi-iefless,  mortified 
at  his  own  ill-success.  You  would  not  look  for  a  very 
flattering  estimate  of  Mr.  Melvill  or  Bishop  Wilberforce 
from  a  preacher  who  esteems  himself  as  a  great  man, 
but  who  somehow  gets  only  empty  pews  and  bare  walls 
to  hear  him  preach.  Sometimes,  in  such  estimates,  there 
are  real  envy  and  malice,  as  shown  by  intentional  mis- 
representation and  mere  abuse.  More  frequently,  we 
willingly  believe,  there  is  no  intention  to  estimate  un- 
fairly ;  the  bias  against  the  man  is  strong,  but  it  is  not 
designed.  A  writer  cut  off'  from  the  staff  of  a  periodical, 
though  really  an  honest  man,  has  been  known  to  attack 
another  writer  retained  on  that  staff".  Let  me  say  that, 
in  such  a  case  a  very  high-minded  man  would  decline  to 
express  publicly  any  estimate,  being  aware  that  he  could 
not  help  being  somewhat  biassed. 

Let  this  be  a  rule :  — 

If  we  think  highly  of  one  who  has  beaten  us,  let  us 
eay  out  our  estimate  warmly  and  heartily. 

If  we  think  ill  of  one  who  has  beaten  us,  let  us  keep 
«ur  estimate  to  ourselves.  It  is  probably  unjust ;  and 
«ven  if  it  be  a  just  estimate,  few  men  of  experience 
will  think  it  so. 

5*  o 


CHAPTER    VI 


REMEMBRANCE, 


iriALL  I,  because  I  have  seen   the    subject 
^^^^    wliich  has  been   simmering  in   my   mind  for 
'i"^^^}}]  several    past    days     treated    beautifully    by 
^1  another  hand,  resolve  not  to  touch   that  sub- 


ject, and  to  let  my  thoughts  about  it  go  ?  No,  I  will 
not. 

It  was  a  little  disheartening,  no  doubt,  when  I  looked 
yesterday  at  a  certain  magazine,  to  find  what  I  had 
designed  to  say  said  far  better  by  somebody  else.  But 
then  Dean  Alford  said  it  in  graceful  and  touching  verse  : 
I  aimed  no  higher  than  at  homely  prose. 

Sitting,  my  friend,  by  the  evening  fireside,  —  sitting  in 
your  easy  chair,  at  rest,  and  looking  at  the  warm  light 
on  the  rosy  i'lva  of  your  little  boy  or  girl,  sitting  on  the 
rug  by  you,  —  do  you  ever  wonder  what  kind  of  remem- 
brance these  little  ones  will  have  of  you,  if  God  spares 
them  to  grow  old  ?  Look  into  the  years  to  come  :  think 
of  that  smooth  face,  lined  and  roughened ;  that  curly 
hair,  gray  ;  that  expression,  now  so  bright  and  ha[)py, 
grown  careworn  and  sad,  and  you  long  in  your  grave. 
Of  course,  your  son  will  not  have  quite  forgot  you.    lie 


REMEMBRANCE.  99 

will  sometimes  think  and  spealv  of  his  father  who  is 
gone.  What  kind  of  remembrance  will  he  have  of  you  ? 
Probably  very  dim  and  vague. 

You  know  for  yourself,  that  when  you  look  at  your 
little  boy  in  the  light  of  the  fire,  who  is  now  a  good 
deal  bigger  than  in  the  days  when  he  first  Avas  able  to 
put  a  soft  hand  in  yours  and  to  walk  by  your  side,  you 
have  but  an  indistinct  remembrance  of  what  he  used  to 
be  then.  Knowing  how  much  you  would  come  to  value 
the  remembrance  of  those  days,  you  have  done  what 
you  could  to  perpetuate  it.  As  yoO  turn  over  th»} 
leaves  of  your  diary,  you  find  recorded  with  care  many 
of  that  little  man's  wonderful  sayings;  though,  beino- 
well  aware  that  these  are  infinitely  more  interesting  to 
you  than  to  other  people,  you  have  sufficient  sense 
to  keep  them  to  yourself.  There  are  those  of  your 
fellow-creatures  to  whom  you  would  just  as  soon  think 
of  speaking  about  these  things  as  you  would  think  of 
speaking  about  them  to  a  jackass.  And  you  have  aided 
your  memory  by  yearly  photographs,  thankful  tliat 
such  invaluable  memorials  are  now  possible,  and  lament- 
ing bitterly  that  they  came  so  late.  Yet,  with  all  this 
help,  and  though  the  years  are  very  kw,  your  remem- 
brance of  the  first  summer  that  your  little  boy  was  able 
to  run  about  on  the  grass  in  the  green  light  of  leaves, 
and  to  go  with  you  to  the  stable-yard  and  lo(jk  witli 
admiration  at  tlie  horso.  and  with  alarm  at  the  pio- 
voraciously  devouring  its  breakfast,  is  far  less  vivid 
and  distinct  than  you  woidd  wish  it  to  be.  Tau'dit  In-- 
experience,  you  liave  striven  with  tlie  efiacinir  power 
of  time:  yet  assuredly  not  with  entire  success.  Yes, 
your  little  boy  of  thnso   years  old  has   faded  somewhat 


100  REMEMBRANCE. 

from  your  memory  ;  and  yon  may  discern  in  all  this  the 
way  in  which  you  will  gradually  fade  from  his.  Never 
forgotten,  if  you  have  been  the  parent  you  ought  to  be, 
you  will  be  remembered  vaguely.  And  you  think  to 
yourself,  in  the  restful  evening,  looking  at  the  rosy  face, 
Now,  when  he  has  grown  old,  how  will  he  remember 
me  ?  I  shall  have  been  gone  for  many  a  day  and  year  ; 
all  my  work,  all  my  cares  and  troubles,  will  be  over  ;  all 
those  little  things  will  be  i)ast  and  forgot,  which  went 
to  make  up  my  life,  and  about  which  nobody  quite  knew 
but  myself.  The*  table  at  whicli  I  write,  the  inkstand, 
all  my  little  arrangements,  will  be  swept  aside.  That 
little  man  will  have  come  a  long,  long  way  since  he 
saw  me  last.  How  will  he  think  of  me  ?  AVill  he  some- 
times recall  my  voice,  and  the  stories  I  told,  and  the 
races  I  used  to  run  ?  Will  he  sometimes  say  to  a 
stranger,  "That's  his  picture,  not  very  like  him";  will 
he  sometimes  think  to  himself,  "  Tliere  is  the  corner 
where  he  used  to  sit ;  I  wonder  where  his  chair  is 
now?" 

Cowper,  writing  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight,  says  of  his 
mother :  "  She  died  when  I  had  completed  my  sixth 
year,  yet  I  remember  her  well.  I  remember  too  a  mul- 
titude of  maternal  tendernesses  which  I  received  from 
her,  and  which  have  endeared  her  memory  to  me  be- 
yond expression."  For  fifty-two  years  the  over-sensi- 
tive poet  had  come  on  his  eartiily  pilgrimage  since  the 
little  boy  of  six  last  saw  his  mother's  face.  Of  course, 
at  that  age,  he  could  understand  very  little  of  what  is 
meant  by  death  ;  and  very  little  of  that  great  truth, 
which  Gray  tells  us  he  discovered  for  himself,  and 
which  very  few  people  learn  till  they  find  it  by  expcri- 


11 


i!i:jii:.MiiiiAXCE.  101 

enre,  that  in  this  world  a  human  being  never  can  have 
more  than  one  mother.  Yet  we  can  think  of  the  poor 
little  man,  finding  daily  that  no  one  cared  for  him  now 
as  he  used  to  be  cared  for,  finding  that  the  kindest 
face  he  could  remember  was  now  seen  no  more.  And 
doubtless  there  was  a  vague,  overwhelming  sorrow  at 
his  heart,  which  lay  there  imexpressed  for  half  a  cent- 
ury, till  his  mother's  picture  sent  him  by  a  relative 
touched  the  fount  of  feeling,  and  inspu-ed  the  words  wa 
aU  know :  — 

"  I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day; 
I  gaw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away  j 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 

But  was  it  such  ?  —  It  was.     Where  thou  art  gone. 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more!  " 

Nobody  likes  the  idea  of  being  quite  forgot.  Yet 
sensible  people  have  to  make  up  their  mind  to  it.  And 
you  do  not  care  so  much  about  being  forgotten  by  those 
beyond  your  own  family  circle.  But  you  shrink  from 
the  thought  that  your  children  may  never  sit  down 
alone,  and,  in  a  kindly  way,  think  for  a  little  of  you 
after  you  are  dead.  And  all  the  little  details  and  inter- 
ests which  now  make  up  your  habitude  of  life  seem  so 
real,  that  there  is  a  certain  difficulty  in  bringing  it  home 
to  one  that  they  are  all  to  go  completely  out,  leaving  no 
trace  behind.  Of  course  they  must.  Our  little  ways, 
my  friend,  will  pass  from  this  earth ;  and  you  and  I  will 
be  like  the  brave  men  who  lived  before  Agamemnon. 
A  clergyman  who  is  doing  his  duty  diligently  does  not 


102  REMEMBRANCE. 

like  to  think  that  tvhen  he  goes  he  will  be  so  soon  for- 
gotten in  his  old  parish  and  his  old  church.  Bigger 
folk,  no  doubt,  have  the  same  feeling.  A  certain  great 
man  has  been  entirely  successful  in  carrying  out  his 
purpose ;  which  was,  he  said,  to  leave  something  so 
written  that  men  should  not  easily  let  it  die.  But  that 
which  is  nearest  us  touches  us  most.  We  sympathize 
most  readily  with  little  men.  Perhaps  you  preached 
yesterday  in  your  own  church  to  a  large  congregation 
of  Christian  people.  Perhaps  they  were  very  silent  and 
attentive.  Perhaps  the  music  was  very  beautiful,  and 
its  heartiness  touched  your  heart.  The  service  was 
soon  over ;  it  may  have  seemed  long  to  some.  Then 
the  great  tide  of  life  that  had  filled  the  church  ebbed 
away,  and  left  it  to  its  week-day  loneliness.  The  like 
happens  each  Sunday.  And  many  years  hence,  after 
you  are  dead,  some  old  people  will  say,  Mr.  Smith  was 
minister  of  this  parish  for  so  man}^  years.  That  is  all. 
And  looking  back  for  even  five  or  ten  years,  a  common 
Sunday's  service  is  as  undistinguished  in  remembrance 
AS  a  green  leaf  on  a  great  beech-tree  now  in  June,  or  as 
a  single  flake  in  a  thick  full  of  snow. 

Probably  you  have  seen  a  picture  by  Mr.  Noel  Paton, 
called  27/6  St'lce?-  Cord  Loosed.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  touching  of  the  picturesof  that  great  paint- 
er. I  saw  it  the  day  before  yesterday,  not  ibr  the  first 
or  second  time.  Peojile  came  into  the  place  where  it 
was  exhibited,  talking  and  laughing;  but  as  they  stood 
before  that  canvas,  a  husli  fell  on  all.  On  a  couch, 
there  is  a  female  figure  lying  dead.  Deatii  i>!  unmis- 
takably there,  but  only  in  its  beauty ;  and  beyond, 
through  a  great  window,  there  is  a  glorious  sunset  sky. 


REMEMBRANCE.  103 

"  Thy  sun  shall  no  more  go  down,  neither  shall  thy 
Diooii  withdraw  herself,  for  the  Lord  shall  be  tliine  ever- 
lasting li?;ht,  and  the  days  of  thy  mourning  shall  be 
ended."  Seated  by  the  bed,  there  is  a  mourner,  with 
bidden  face,  in  his  first  overwhelming  grief.  Looking 
at  that  picture  in  former  days,  I  had  thought  how  "  at 
evening  time  there  shall  be  liglit."  but  looking  at  it  now, 
with  tlie  subject  of  this  essay  in  my  mind,  I  thought 
how  that  man,  so  crushed  meanwhile,  if  the  first  grief 
do  not  kill  him  (and  the  greatest  grief  rarely  kills  the 
man  of  sound  phyt^ical  frame),  would  get  over  it,  and 
after  some  years  would  find  it  hard  to  revive  the  feelings 
and  thoughts  of  this  day.  People  in  actual  modern  life 
are  not  attired  in  the  picturesque  fashion  of  the  mourner 
in  Mr.  Noel  Paton's  picture,  but  it  is  because  many  can 
from  their  own  experience  tell  what  a  human  being  in 
like  circumstances  would  be  feeling  that  this  detail  of 
the  picture  is  so  touching.  And  the  saddest  thing  about 
it  is  not  the  present  grief,  it  is  the  fact  that  the  grief 
"will  so  certainly  fade  and  go.  And  no  human  power 
can  prevent  it.  "  The  low  beginnings  of  content "  will 
force  themselves  into  conscious  existence,  even  in  the 
heart  that  is  most  unwilling  to  recognize  them.  You 
will  chide  yourself  that  you  are  able  so  soon  to  get  over 
that  which  you  once  fancied  would  darken  all  your  after 
days.  And  all  your  efforts  will  not  bring  back  the  first 
sorrow,  nor  recall  the  thoughts  and  the  atmosphere  of 
that  time.  When  you  were  a  little  boy,  and  a  little 
brother  pinched  your  arm  so  that  a  red  mark  was  left, 
you  hastened  down-stairs  to  make  your  complaint  to  the 
proper  authority.  On  your  way  down,  fast  as  you  went, 
you  perceived  that  the  red  mark  was  fading  out,  and 


104  REMEMBRANCE. 

becoming  invisible.  And  did  jou  not  secretly  give  the 
place  another  ])inch  to  keep  up  the  color  till  the  injury 
should  be  exhibited  ?  Well,  there  are  mourners  who  do 
just  the  like.  I  think  I  can  see  some  traces  of  that  in 
In  Memoriam.  In  sorrow  that  the  wound  is  healing, 
you  are  ready  to  tear  it  open  afresh.  And  by  observing 
anniversaries,  by  going  to  places  surrounded  by  sad 
associations,  some  human  beings  strive  to  keep  up  their 
feelings  to  the  sensitive  point  of  former  days.  But  it 
will  not  do.  The  surface,  often  spurred,  gets  indurated  ; 
sensation  leaves  it,  and  ni'Un-  a  while,  you  might  as  well 
think  to  excite  sensation  in  a  piece  of  India  rubber  by 
pricking  it  with  a  pin,  as  think  to  waken  any  real  feel- 
ing in  the  heart  which  has  indeed  met  a  terrible  wound, 
but  whose  wound  is  cicatrized.  All  this  is  very  sad  to 
think  of.  Indeed,  I  confess  to  thinking  it  the  very  sor- 
est point  about  the  average  human  being.  Great  grief 
may  leave  us,  but  it  sliould  not  leave  us  the  men  we 
were.  There  are  people  in  whose  faces  I  always  look 
with  wonder,  thinking  of  what  they  have  come  through, 
and  of  how  little  trace  it  h:is  left.  I  have  gone  into  a 
certain  room,  where  everything  recalled  vividly  to  me 
one  who  v^as  dead.  Furniture,  books,  pictures,  piano, 
how  plainly  they  bronglit  back  the  iiace  of  one  far 
away !  But  the  regular  inmates  of  the  liouse  had  no 
sucii  feeling;  had  it  not,  at  least,  in  any  painful  degree. 
No  doubt,  they  had  felt  it  for  a  while,  and  outgrown  it ; 
whereas  to  me  it  came  fresh.  And  after  a  time  it  went 
from  me  too. 

You  know  how  we  linger  on  the  words  and  looks  of 
the  dead  after  they  are  gone.  It  is  our  sorrowful  pro- 
test against  the  power  of  Time,  which  we  know  is  taking 


REMEMBRANCE.  105 

t\iese  tilings  from  us.  We  try  to  bring  back  the  features 
and  the  tones ;  and  we  are  angry  with  ourselves  tliat  we 
cannot  do  so  more  clearly.  "  Such  a  day,"  we  think, 
■''  we  saw  them  last :  so  they  looked  :  and  such  words 
Jiey  said."  We  do  t/nit  about  people  for  whom  we  did 
flot  especially  care  while  they  lived:  a  certain  conse- 
cration is  breathed  al)out  them  now.  But  how  much 
more  as  to  those  who  did  not  need  this  to  endear  them  ! 
You  ought  to  know  the  lines  of  a  true  and  beautiful 
poet  about  his  little  brother  who  died  :  — 

"  And  when  at  last  be  was  borne  af\ir 
From  the  world's  weary  strife, 
How  oft  in  thought  did  we  again 
Live  o'er  his  little  life ! 

"  His  every  look,  his  every  word, 
His  very  voice's  tone. 
Came  back  to  us  like  things  whose  worth 
Is  only  prized  when  gone!  " 

I  wish  I  could  tell  Mr.  Hedderwick  how  many  scores 
of  times  I  repeated  to  myself  that  most  touching  poem 
in  which  these  verses  stand.  But  I  know  (for  human 
nature  is  always  the  same)  that,  when  the  poet  grew  to 
middle  age  and  more,  those  tones  and  looks  that  came 
so  vividly  back  in  the  first  days  of  bereavement  would 
grow  indistinct  and  faint.  And  now,  when  he  sits  by 
the  fire  at  evening,  or  when  he  goes  out  for  a  solitary 
walk,  and  tries  to  recall  his  little  brother's  face,  he  will 
grieve  to  feel  that  it  seems  misty  and  far  away. 

"  I  cannot  see  the  features  right, 

When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  knew;  the  hues  are  faint, 
And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night." 


106  REMEMBKANCE. 

And  you  will  remember  how  Mr.  Ilawtliome,  with 
Lis  slmrp  disceriiiiiciit  of  the  subtle  phenomena  of  the 
mind,  speaking  in  the  name  of  one  who  recalled  the 
form  and  sispect  of  a  beautiful  woman  not  seen  for 
years,  says  something  like  this :  When  I  shut  my  eyes, 
I  see  her  yet,  but  a  little  wanner  than  wlien  I  saw  her 
in  fact. 

Yes ;  and  as  time  goes  on,  a  great  deal  wanner.  I 
have  remarked  that  even  when  the  outlines  remain  in 
our  remembrance,  the  colors  fade  away. 

Thus  true  is  it,  that  as  for  the  long  absent  and  the 
long  dead,  their  remembrance  fails.  Their  faces,  and 
the  tones  of  their  voice,  grow  dim.  And  sometimes  we 
have  all  thought  what  a  great  thing  it  would  be  to  be 
able  at  will  to  bring  all  these  back  with  the  vividness 
of  reality.  What  a  great  thing  it  would  be  if  we  could 
keep  tliem  on  with  us,  clearly  and  vividly  as  we  had 
them  at  the  first!  When  your  young  sister  died,  oh 
how  distinctly  you  could  hear,  for  many  days,  some 
chance  sentence  as  spoken  by  her  gentle  voice  !  Wlien 
your  little  child  was  taken,  liow  ])lainly  you  could  feel, 
for  a  while,  the  fat  little  cheek  laid  against  your  own,  as 
it  was  for  the  last  time !  But  there  is  no  precious  pos- 
session we  have  which  wears  out  so  fast  as  the  remem- 
brance of  those  who  are  gone.  There  never  was  but 
one  case  where  that  was  not  so.  Let  us  remember  it  as 
we  are  told  of  it  in  the  never-failing  Record :  there  are 
not  many  kindlier  words,  even  there  :  — 

"  But  the  Comforter,  which  is  the  Holy  Ghost,  whom 
the  Father  will  send  in  my  name,  lie  shall  teacli  you  all 
things,  and  bring  all  things  to  your  remembrance,  what- 
soever I  have  said  unto  you." 


REMEMBRANCE.  107 

So  you  see  in  that  case  the  dear  remembrance  would 
never  wear  out  but  with  hfe.  The  Blessed  Spirit  would 
bring  back  the  words,  the  tones,  the  looks,  of  the  Blessed 
Redeemer,  as  long  as  tliose  lived  who  had  heard  and 
seen  Him.  He  was  to  do  other  things,  still  more  im- 
]>ortant ;  but  you  will  probably  feel  what  a  wonderfully 
kindly  and  encouraging  view  it  gives  us  of  that  Divine 
Person,  to  think  of  Hiui  as  doing  all  that.  And  while 
we  have  often  to  grieve  that  our  best  feelings  and  im- 
pulses die  away  so  fast,  think  how  the  Apostles,  every- 
where, through  all  their  after  years,  would  have  recalled 
to  them  when  needful  all  things  that  the  Saviour  had 
said  to  them ;  and  how  He  said  those  things ;  and  how 
He  looked  as  He  said  them.  They  had  not  to  wait  for 
seasons  when  the  old  time  came  over  them ;  when 
tlirough  a  rift  in  the  cloud,  as  it  were,  they  discerned  for 
a  minute  the  face  they  used  to  know ;  and  heard  the 
voice  again,  like  distant  b(!ll3  borne  u\  upon  the  breeze. 
No :  the  look  was  always  on  St.  Peter,  that  brought  him 
back  from  his  miserable  wander;  and  St.  John  could 
recall  the  words  of  that  partmg  discom-se  so  accurately, 
after  fifty  years. 

The  poet  Motherwell  begins  a  little  poem  with  this 
verse : — 

"  When  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleeping, 

Life's  fever  o'er, 
Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping 

That  I  'm  no  more? 
Will  there  be  any  heart  sad  memory  keeping 

Of  heretofore?" 

Now  that  is  a  pretty  verse,  but  to  ray  taste  it  seems 
tainted  with  sentinientalism.  No  man  really  in  earnest 
could  have  written  these  lines.  And  I  feel  not  the 
slightest  respect  for  the   desire   to  have  "  bright  eyes 


108  REMEMBRANCE. 

weeping"  for  you,  or  to  have  some  vague  indefinite 
"  heart "  remembering  you.  INIr.  Augustus  Moddle,  or 
any  empty-headed  kickadaisical  lad,  writing  morbid 
verses  in  imitation  of  Byron,  could  do  that  kind  of 
thing.  The  man  whose  desire  of  remembrance  takes 
the  shape  of  a  wish  to  have  some  pretty  girl  crying  for 
him  (which  is  the  thing  aimed  at  in  the  mention  of  the 
"bright  eye  weeping")  is  on  ))re('isely  the  same  level,  in 
regard  to  taste  and  sense,  with  the  silly,  conceited  block- 
head who  struts  about  in  some  place  of  fashionable 
resort,  and  fancies  all  the  young  women  are  looking  at 
him.  Why  should  people  with  whom  you  have  nothing 
to  do  weep  for  you  after  you  are  dead,  any  more  than 
look  at  you  or  think  of  you  while  you  are  living?  But 
it  is  a  very  different  feeling,  and  an  infinitely  more 
respectable  one,  that  dwells  with  the  man  who  has  out- 
grown silly  sentimentalism,  yet  who  looks  at  tliose  whom 
he  holds  dearest ;  at  those  whose  stay  he  is,  and  who 
make  up  his  great  interest  in  life ;  at  those  wliom  he 
will  lemember,  and  never  foi-get,  no  matter  where  he 
may  go  in  God's  univer.-e  ;  and  who  thinks.  Now,  when 
the  impassable  river  runs  between,  —  when  I  am  an 
old  remembrance,  unseen  for  many  years,  —  and  when 
they  are  surrounded  by  the  interests  of  their  after  life, 
and  daily  see  many  faces  but  never  mine  ;  how  will  they 
think  of  me  ?  Do  not  forget  me,  my  little  children 
whom  I  loved  so  much,  when  I  shall  go  from  you.  I 
do  not  wish  you  (a  wise,  good  man  might  say)  to  vex 
yourselves,  little  tilings  ;  I  do  not  wish  you  to  be  gloomy 
or  sad ;  but  sometimes  think  of  3'our  father  and  mother 
when  they  are  far  away.  You  may  be  sure  that, 
wherever  they  are,  they  will  not  be  forgetting  you. 


I 


CHAPTER    VII. 

ON  THE  FOREST    HILL:    WITH   SOME    THOUGHTS 
TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE. 


HY  is  it  that  that  purple  liill  will  not  get  out 
of  iny  mind  to-night?  1  am  sure  it  is  not 
that  I  cared  for  it  so  much  when  I  could  see 
it  as  often  as  I  pleased.  I  suppose,  my 
reader,  that  you  know  the  painful  vividness  with  which 
distant  scenes  and  times  will  sometimes  come  back 
unbidden  and  unwished.  No  one  can  tell  why.  And 
now,  at  11.25  P.  M.,  when  I  have  gone  up  to  my  room 
far  away  from  home,  and  ought  to  go  to  bed,  that  hill 
will  not  go  away.  There  is  no  use  in  trying.  And 
nothing  can  be  more  certain  tlian  that  if  I  went  to  bed 
now,  1  should  toss  about  in  a  fever  till  4  or  5  A.  M. 
Well,  as  a  smart  gallop  takes  the  nonsense  out  of  an  aged 
horse  which  has  shown  an  unwonted  friskness,  there  is 
something  which  will  quiet  this  present  writer's  pulse, 
and  it  shall  be  tried.  Come  out,  you  writing-case ; 
come  forth,  the  foolsca]),  the  ink-bottle,  the  little  quill 
that  has  written  many  j)agcs.  And  now  you  may  come 
back  again  before  the  mind 's  eye,  purple  hill,  not  seen 
for  years. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  which  if  opened  would  behold  many 


110  ON   THE    FOREST   HILL: 

things  not  needful  to  be  noted,  and  then  the  scene  arises. 
In  actiKil  fact,  the  writer  is  surrounded  by  the  usual 
furniture  of  a  bedroom  in  a  p;reat  railway  hotel  in  a 
certain  ancient  city ;  and  occasional  thundering  sounds, 
and  awful  piercing  screeches,  speak  of  arriving  and 
departing  trains  somewhat  too  near.  I  have  walked 
round  tlie  city  upon  tlie  wall ;  and  reaching  a  certain 
spot  I  sat  down  in  the  summer  twilight,  and  looked  for 
a  long  time  at  the  old  cathedral,  which  is  not  gray  with 
age ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  red,  as  though  tliere  lingered 
about  its  crumbling  stones  the  sunsets  of  seven  hundred 
summers.  The  day  was,  as  we  learn  from  Bisho]) 
Blomfield's  Life,  wherein  to  be  tlie  chief  minister  of 
that  noble  church  was  esteemed  as  a  very  poor  prefer- 
ment. And  this  estimation  is  justified  by  the  statement 
that  the  annual  revenue  of  the  bishop  was  not  so  very 
many  hundred  pounds.  But  who  shall  calculate  the 
money  value  of  the  privilege  of  living  in  this  quaint  old 
city,  whose  streets  carry  you  back  for  centuries ;  and 
of  worshipping,  as  often  as  you  please,  under  that  ^ub- 
lime  roof;  of  breathing  the  moral  atmosphere  of  the 
ancient  place;  and  of  looking  from  its  walls  upon  those 
blue  liills  and  over  those  rich  plains  ?  Surely  one 
might  here  live  a  peaceful  life  of  worship,  thought,  and 
study,  amid  Gothic  walls  and  carved  oak  and  church 
music.  And  if  any  ordinary  man  should  declare  tllat 
he  could  not  be  content  with  all  this,  just  let  me  get 
him  by  the  ears.     Would  n't  I  shake  him  ! 

But  all  this  is  a  deviation.  And  if  tliere  is  anj-tliing 
on  which  the  wi-iter  prides  himself,  it  is  the  severity 
of  his  logic.  You  will  not  find  in  his  ])ages  those 
desultory    and  wandering    passages    which    atti'act  the 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING   DREAM-LIFE.  Ill 

unthinking  to  the  works  of  Archbishop  Whately  and 
Mr.  John  Stuart  JNIill.  And  from  this  brief  excursion 
he  returns  to  tlie  severe  order  of  thought  which  is 
natural  to  him. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  as  has  been  ah-eady  remarked.  The 
railway  hotel,  the  thundering  trains,  and  the  yelling 
engines  vanish,  and  the  old  scene  arises.  It  is  a  bright 
autumn  afternoon.  The  air  is  very  still.  The  sun  is 
very  warm,  and  makes  the  swept  cornfields  gold- 
en. The  trees  are  crimson  and  brown,  and  crisped 
leaves  rustle  beneath  your  foot.  It  is  a  long  val- 
ley, with  hills  on  either  side,  and  a  river  flowing 
down  it.  A  patli  winds  by  the  river  side,  through  the 
fields;  and  there,  in  front,  is  the  purple  hill.  An 
Englishman  would  think  it  pretty  high.  It  is  more 
than  twelve  hundred  feet  in  height.  The  upper  part 
of  it  is  covered  with  heather.  It  rises  like  a  great 
pyramid,  closing  in  the  valley.  There  are  two  or  three 
little  farm-houses  half-way  up  it.  Above  these  it  is 
solitary  and  still. 

I  wonder,  this  evening,  being  so  far  away,  yet  with 
painful  distinctness  seeing  all  tliat,  whether  I  am  there 
in  fact  as  well  as  feeling  ?  Would  some  country  lad, 
returning  late  from  market,  discern  a  shadowy  figure 
walking  slowly  along  the  patli,  and  bawl  out  and  run 
away,  recognizing  me  ? 

If  you  believe  various  recent  books,  you  will  under- 
stand that  when  you  think  very  intently  of  a  place  or 
person,  it  is  not  improbable  that  some  misty  eidolon  of 
yourself  is  present  to  the  person  or  at  the  place.  I  can- 
not say  that  I  think  this  fact  well  authenticated. 

I  walk  on,  not  in  the  summer  night,  but  in  the  au- 


112  ON  THK   FOREST  HILL: 

tumn  afttTiioon.  I  want  to  climb  the  hill,  as  I  have 
done  80  ofteu  in  dej)arte(l  days.  So  I  lay  aside  the  pen, 
and  bend  down  my  head  on  my  hands. 

I  have  been  there,  if  ever  I  was  in  my  life.  It  is  not 
every  day  one  can  sit  in  a  very  hard  easy-chair,  and 
take  such  a  walk,  nearly  two  hundred  miles  off. 

Through  the  long  grass,  with  a  dry  rustle  under  one's 
feet,  by  the  river's  side ;  up  through  a  little  wood  of 
firs,  till  the  highway  is  gained ;  over  a  one-arched 
bi'idge,  that  spans  a  little  rocky  gorge,  where  a  stream, 
smaller  than  the  river,  tumbles  over  a  shelf  of  rock, 
making  a  noisy  waterfall,  now  white  as  country  snow 
that  has  lain  but  a  night ;  up  a  steep  and  rough  road, 
with  birches  on  either  hand,  and  a  brook  flowing  down 
on  one  side,  tliat  brawls  in  rainy  weather,  but  only  mur- 
murs on  the  still  autumn  day  ;  up  and  up  till  the  hedges 
give  place  to  walls  of  rude  stones,  built  without  mortar ; 
and  till  rough  slopes  of  heather  spread  away  on  either 
side ;  up  and  up  till  the  path  ceases,  and  you  sit  down 
on  a  great  bowlder  of  granite  in  the  lonely  bosom  of  the 
hill :  through  all  that  I  have  been.  A  long  way  below 
this,  but  a  longer  way  above  the  wooded  valley,  which 
you  now  see  in  its  whole  extent,  you  may  discern  the 
smoke  rising  from  a  farm-house,  screened  a  little  by  a 
clump  of  rather  scraggy  pines.  There  is  a  sick  man 
there,  —  an  aged  man  whom  I  go  to  see  frequently.  I 
went  to  the  farm-house  door,  a  black  and  white  dog 
barking  i'uriously  ;  there  a  pleasant,  comely,  young  face 
welcomed  me.  I  went  in  and  found  my  old  friend  sit- 
ting by  his  warm  fireside,  which  was,  indeed,  a  great 
deal  too  warm  for  any  one  who  had  been  striving  up 


THOUGHTS   TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  113 

that  stiff  ascent.  I  saw  his  face  and  heard  his  voice, 
though  he  has  been  dead  for  years.  I  saw  the  sheep 
feeding  on  the  hill  around ;  I  heard  a  cart  passing  nois- 
ily along  a  road  far  below ;  I  saw  the  long  gleam  of  the 
river,  down  in  the  valley,  and  the  horizon  of  encircling 
hills :  saw  and  heard  all  these  things  as  really  as  though 
they  had  been  present.  Memory  is  certainly  a  most 
wonderful  thing.  It  is  very  capricious.  Sometimes  it 
recalls  things  very  faintly  and  dimly ;  sometimes,  with  a 
vividness  that  makes  one  start.  Can  it  be  so  long  ago ! 
And  it  selects  in  a  very  arbitrary  fashion  what  it  will 
choose  to  remember.  The  faces  and  voices  we  would 
most  desire  to  recall,  it  allows  to  fade  away  ;  and  scenes 
and  people  we  did  not  particularly  care  for,  it  now  and 
then  sets  before  us  with  this  strange  vividness  of  force 
and  color.  I  did  not  cherish  any  special  regard  for  the 
old  farmer ;  and  the  walk  up  the  hill  was  not  a  very 
great  favorite.  Yet  to-night  something  took  me  by  the 
collar  and  walked  me  up  that  path,  and  set  me  down 
beside  the  old  man's  chair. 

I  have  come  back.  It  has  exorcised  the  hill,  to  write 
all  this  about  it.  I  had  an  eerie  feeling,  like  that  which 
De  Quincey  tells  he  had  for  many  nights  about  the 
INIalay  to  whom  he  gave  the  great  piece  of  opium.  But 
now  the  hill  is  appeased.  All  these  odd,  inexplicable 
states  of  thought  and  feeling  are  transitory.  And  it  is 
much  better  that  they  should  be  so.  Hard  work  crowds 
them  out :  it  is  only  in  comparative  leisure  the}'  come  at 
all. 

But  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  oidy  weak  and  fanciful 
persons  know  by  experience  these  mental  phenomena. 


114  ON    THE   FOREST   HILL: 

What  may  be  called  Dream-life  (that  is,  spendinpf  some 
part  of  one's  time  in  an  imaginary  world),  is  a  thing  in 
which  some  of  the  hardest-headed  of  hnman  beings 
have  had  their  share.  And  tliis  little  walk  which  the 
writer  has  had  to-night  in  a  place  far  away,  and  as  upon  a 
day  that  is  left  far  behind,  helps  him  to  understand  some 
of  those  singular  things  which  are  recorded  of  the  extent 
to  which  many  men  have  spent  their  time  in  castles  in 
the  air,  and  of  the  persistency  with  which  they  have 
dwelt  there,  to  the  forgetfulness  of  more  tangible  inter- 
ests. If  ever  there  was  a  man  who  was  not  a  morbid 
day-dreamer,  it  was  Sir  James  Mackintosh.  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  was  known  to  mankind  in  general  as  an 
acute  metai)hysi('ian,  a  forcible  political  writer,  a  brilliant 
talker.  The  greatest  place  he  ever  held,  to  the  common 
eye,  was  that  of  Recorder  of  Bombay.  And  he  held 
that  place  just  the  shortest  time  he  possibly  could  to 
earn  his  pension.  How  many  men  knew,  looking  at  the 
homely  Scotchman,  what  his  true  place  in  life  was  ?  Had 
he  not  told  us  himself,  we  should  hardly  have  believed 
it.  He  was  Emperor  of  Constantinople  !  And  a  labo- 
rious and  anxious  position  he  found  it.  He  (mentally) 
promoted  many  of  hi-;  fri('nds  to  important  offices  of 
state  ;  and  hif»  friends  l)y  their  indiscretion  and  incom- 
petence caused  him  an  immense  deal  of  trouble.  Then 
the  empire  was  always  getting  involved  in  the  most 
vexatious  complications,  which  seriously  affected  the 
emperor's  sleep  and  general  health.  He  always  felt  like 
a  man  playing  a  very  inti-icate  game  of  chess.  No 
wonder  he  was  sometimes  very  absent  and  distracted. 
You  would  say  he  might  have  escaped  all  this  by  re- 
signing his  crown;  but  he  could  not  arrange  satisfao- 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  115 

torily  to  do  that.  A  thoughtless  i^erson  smiles  at  these 
things  ;  but  to  Mackintosh  they  were  among  the  most 
serious  things  of  his  life.  A  man  of  bread-and-butter 
understanding  would  explain  it  by  saying  that  Mackin- 
tosh was  cracked  ;  but  then  we  all  know  that  he  was 
not  cracked.  Yet  in  his  disengaged  hours,  regularly  as 
they  came,  was  the  thread  of  his  history  taken  up  where 
it  had  been  dropped  last  time ;  and  he  was  the  emperor, 
laden  with  an  emperor's  cares.  It  was  not,  as  with  the 
actor  Elliston,  received  with  great  applause  on  the  stage 
at  Drury  Lane,  and  fancying  himself  a  king  just  long 
enough  to  bestow  a  blessing  upon  the  audience,  till  he 
was  pulled  up  by  a  burst  of  laughter.  Nor  was  it  like 
Alexander  the  Great,  according  to  Dryden,  who  "as- 
sumed the  god  "  for  only  a  very  limited  period.  Neither 
was  the  astute  philosopher's  notion  of  an  emperor  the 
childish  one.  He  was  not  emperor,  to  sit  on  a  throne 
and  receive  homage  and  make  a  grand  appearance  on 
grand  occasions,  but  to  go  through  intricate  calculations 
and  hard  work,  and  to  undergo  great  anxietv. 

In  short,  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  being  a  great  man, 
indulged  in  dream-life  on  a  great  scale.  But  common- 
place human  beings  do  it  in  a  way  that  suits  themselves 
and  tlieir  moderate  aspirations.  Tlie  poor  consumptive 
girl,  who,  on  a  dark  December  evening,  is  propjjed  up 
with  pillows,  and  gets  you  to  sit  beside  her  while  she 
tells  you  how  much  stronger  and  better  she  feels,  how 
by  spring  she  will  be  quite  well  ag:iin,  and  how  deliglit- 
ful  the  long  walks  will  be  in  tlie  summer  evenings,  while 
you  know  she  will  never  see  the  black-thorn  in  blossom, 
nor  the  green  leaves  on  the  tree :  she  is  doing  just  what 
the   great  metaphysician    used    to   do.     And  the  little 


IIG  ON   THE  FORi;ST   HILL: 

schoolboy,  far  away  from  home,  a  thoughtful,  bullied 
little  fellow,  does  it  too,  when  he  pictures  out  the  next 
holiday-time,  and  liis  getting  away  from  all  this  to  be 
Avith  those  who  care  for  liim.  Possibly  more  people 
than  you  Avould  think  make  up  for  the  dulne.-s  of  their 
actual  life  in  some  such  way.  Tliey  take  pleasure  iu 
fancying  what  they  would  like  in  their  vacant  hours. 
And  unless  you  wish  your  mind  to  become  very  small 
and  diy,  you  will  have  such  hours.  No  matter  how 
hard-worked  you  may  be,  they  are  attainable.  You  re- 
member wliat  Cliarles  Lamb  once  wrote  to  a  friend : 
"  If  you  have  but  five  consolatory  minutes  between  the 
desk  and  the  bed,  make  much  of  them,  and  live  a  cen- 
tury in  them."  Human  beings,  living  even  the  most 
prosaic  lives,  have  sometimes  their  enchanted  palace, 
and  live  in  it  a  great  deal.  Have  you  not  sometimes, 
my  reader,  pictured  out  tiie  life  you  would  like,  not  in 
the  least  expecting  it,  or  even  really  wishing  it,  any 
more  than  IMackintosli  really  looked  to  be  made  Empe- 
ror of  Constantinople  ?  And  wlien  you  have  set  your 
heart  on  something  hajjpening.  which  is  very  likely  not 
to  iiappen,  it  is  quite  right  to  please  yourself  by  pictur- 
ing out  the  best :  all  the  more  that  this  is  all  the  enjoy- 
ment of  it  you  are  likely  to  have.  If  we  have  all  suf- 
fered a  great  deal  of  ))ain  through  the  anticipation  of 
evils  which  never  came,  we  have  all  probably  enjoyed 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure  through  the  anticipation  of 
pleasant  tilings  whicli  were  never  to  be.  We  have  lived 
a  good  deal  in  ciistles  whicii  were  nevei  lo  be  built,  but 
ill  the  air.  Wlien  we  tried  for  something  we  did  not 
get,  you  remember  well  how  we  used,  in  vacant  hours, 
to  plan  out  all  the  mode  of  life,  even  to  its  minute  de- 


THOUGHTS   TOUCHING   DREAM-LIFE.  117 

tails ;  enjoyinjT  it  only  the  more  keenly  through  the  in- 
trusion of  the  fear  that  only  in  this  airy  fashion  should 
we  ever  lead  that  life  which  we  should  have  enjoyed  so 
much.  Of  course,  it  is  not  expedient  to  waste  in  dream- 
ing over  noble  plans  the  precious  hours  which  might 
have  gone  far  to  turn  our  dreams  into  serviceable  reali- 
ties. It  is  foolish  for  the  lad  at  college  to  spend,  in 
thinking  how  proud  liis  parents  would  be,  and  how 
pleased  all  his  friends,  if  he  were  to  carry  off  all  the 
honors  that  were  to  be  had,  the  time  which,  if  devoted 
to  hard  work,  might  have  gained  at  least  some  of  those 
soon-forgotten  laurels.  It  may  be  said  here,  by  way  of 
parenthesis,  that  one  of  the  very  last  visions  in  which 
ambitious  youth  need  indulge  is  the  vision  of  being  re- 
cognized as  great  and  distinguished  in  the  place  of  your 
birth  or  your  early  days.  A  prophet  has  no  honor  in 
his  own  country.  I  have  a  friend,  greatly  revered,  who 
expresses  an  opposite  opinion.  He  maintains,  in  a 
charming  volume,  that  if  you  rise  to  decent  eminence 
in  life,  the  peo])le  who  knew  you  as  a  boy  will  be  proud 
of  you,  and  will  help  to  push  you  on  flxrther.  "  I  see, 
with  my  mind's  eye,"  says  my  friend,  "  a  statue  of 
Dunsford,  erected  in  Tollerporcorum."  Dunsford  was 
a  native  of  Tollerporcorum ;  and  having  recorded  the 
conversation  of  his  Friends  in  Council,  Avould  probably 
be  thus  distinguished.  There  are  portions  of  this  earth 
where  the  fact  is  just  the  contrary.  Tollerporcorum  is 
just  the  last  place  where  certain  Dunsfords  I  know  are 
likely  to  have  a  statue.  Dunsford's  early  acquaintances 
cannot  bear  the  moderate  success  which  has  attended 
Dunsford  in  life;  they  regard  Friends  171  Council  as  a 
very  poor  work ;  and  a  college  acquaintance,  who  never 


118  ON   THE   FOREST   HILL: 

forijave  Dunsford  the  me(lal3  he  won  there,  now  and 
then  abuses  Dunsford  iu  tlie  Tollerporcorum  news|)aper. 
I  hitely  visited  a  certain  Tollerporcorum,  —  an  ancient 
town  in  a  I'air  tract  of  country.  That  Tollerporcorum 
had  its  Dunsford.  Dunsford  started  from  small  begin- 
nings, but  gradually  rose  about  as  high  as  a  human 
being  well  can  in  a  certain  portion  of  Scandinavia.  But 
the  fashionable  and  intellectual  thing  iu  Tollerporco- 
rum was  to  ignore  Dunsford  and  his  career  altogether. 
Xobody  cared  about  him  or  it.  Dunsford  sometimes 
went  back  to  Tollerporcorum;  and  the  Tollerporcorum 
people  diligently  shut  their  eyes  to  his  existence.  Every 
envious  little  wretch  who  had  stuck  in  the  mud  thus 
avenged  himself  on  Dunsford  for  having  got  on  so  far. 
In  the  latter  years  of  his  honored  life,  Dunsford  hardly 
ever  visited  Tollerporcorum ;  and  when  the  great  man 
died,  it  was  never  proposed  at  Tollerporcorum  to  erect 
so  much  as  a  drinking-fonntain  to  his  memory. 

Here  ends  the  jiaren  thesis.  Take  u}!  the  broken 
thread  of  thought.  It  is  right  and  pleasant  to  gain  at 
least  the  pleasure  of  anticij)ation  out  of  happy  things 
that  are  not  to  be.  And  when  you  see  a  sanguine  per- 
son in  a  state  of  great  enjoyment  through  such  anticipa- 
tion, you  will  not,  unless  you  have  in  you  the  spirit  of 
my  old  friend  Mr.  Snarling,  try  to  throw  a  damp  upon 
all  this  innocent  happiness  by  pointing  out,  with  great 
force  of  logic,  how  very  little  chance  there  is  of  the  an- 
ticipation being  realized.  That  is  only  the  stronger 
reason  for  enjoying  in  this  way  that  which  you  are  not 
likely  to  enjoy  in  any  other.  There  is  hardly  a  more 
touching  sight  than  the  sight  of  a  human  being,  old  or 
young,  happy  in  the  anticipation  of  any  pleasant  thing 


THOUGHTS   TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  119 

which  he  will  never  reach.  With  what  a  rosy  face  and 
what  bright  eyes  your  little  boy  of  five  years  old  con- 
fides to  you  all  he  is  to  do  when  he  is  a  man !  Great 
are  the  grandeur  and  fame  in  which  he  is  to  live,  many 
are  to  be  his  horses,  and  numerous  his  dogs ;  but  a  great 
feature  in  his  plan  always  is,  how  happy  he  is  to  make 
his  father  and  mother.  Ah  !  little  man,  before  those 
days  come  your  father  and  mother  will  be  far  away. 

And  a  reason  why  a  wise  man,  desirous  to  economize 
the  enjoyment  there  is  in  this  life,  and  to  make  it  go  as 
far  as  possible,  will  often  quietly  luxuriate  in  the  pros- 
pect of  what  he  seci-etly  knows  is  not  likely  to  happen, 
is  this  certain  fact,  that  in  this  world  the  thing  you 
would  like  best  is  the  thing  you  are  least  likely  to  get. 
Tliat  is  a  fact  which,  as  we  get  on  through  life,  we  come 
to  know  extremely  well.  Yes,  if  you  set  your  heart  on 
a  thing,  whoever  gets  it,  you  won't.  You  may  get  some- 
thing else,  perhaps  something  better,  but  not  that.  If 
you  have  such  an  enthusiasm  for  Gothic  architecture 
that  you  sometimes  think  no  one  could  enjoy  it  so  much, 
if  you  feel  that  it  would  sensibly  flavor  all  your  life  to 
live  in  a  Gothic  house  or  to  worship  in  a  Gothic 
church,  then,  though  everything  else  about  them  be 
all  you  could  wish,  rely  on  it,  your  church  and  house 
will  be  Palludian.  And  you  will  often  meet  men  whose 
belongings  are  Gothic,  who  tell  you  they  are  very  beau- 
tiful, very  uncomfortable,  that  the  church  is  destroying 
their  lungs,  and  the  house  giving  them  perpetual  cold  in 
their  heads,  and  who  greatly  envy  you.  Of  course, 
all  this  is  gratifying,  to  a  certain  degree.  It  serves  to 
make  you  content. 

I  have  known  a  man  who  lived  in  a  house  which  was 


120  ON   THE   FOREST   HILL: 

extremely  comfortable,  and  extremely  ugly.  No  one 
could  ever  say  to  what  school  of  architecture,  in  par- 
ticular, his  residence  was  to  be  referred.  And  the 
country  round  was  very  ugly  and  bare.  But,  like  the 
farmer  in  Virgil,  in  that  exquisite  passage  in  one  of 
the  Georgics,  rexjum  cequabat  opes  animo ;  he  could 
picture  out,  at  will,  a  charming  English  manor-house, 
of  hospitable-looking  red  brick  with  stone  dressings ; 
oriel-windowed,  steep-gabled,  with  great  wreathed  chim- 
neys, with  environing  terraces,  with  magnificent  horse- 
chestnuts  ever  blazing  in  the  glory  of  June.  You 
thought  he  was  walking  a  bleak  moorland  road,  dreary 
and  dismal ;  but  in  truth  the  warm  breeze  was 
shaking  the  blossoms  overhead,  and  making  a  cliequercd 
dancing  shade  on  soft  green  turf  below.  And  there 
yearly  comes  a  certain  season,  when  very  many  human 
beings  practise  on  themselves  a  delusion  something  like 
his.  I  mean  Christmas-time.  Who  ever  spent  the 
ideal  Christmas?  I  should  like  very  greatly  to  behold 
that  person.  I  have  never  done  so  yet :  never  spent  a 
Christmas  in  all  my  life  in  the  ideal  way.  You  ought 
to  be  living  in  a  noble  Gothic  house,  somewhere  in  the 
midland  counties  of  England.  There  ought  to  be  a 
large  and  gay  party,  spending  the  holidays  there. 
There  ought  to  be  an  exquisite  old  cliurch  near.  There 
ought  to  be  bracing  frost,  and  clieerful  snow.  All  hearts 
should  seem  touclied  and  warmed  by  the  sacred  asso- 
ciations of  the  season.  There  should  be  an  oaken  hall, 
and  a  vast  wood-fire;  holly  and  mistletoe  ;  and  of  course 
roast  beef  and  plum-pudding  and  strong  ale  for  every 
poor  person  near.  You  should  be  living,  in  short,  at 
Bracebridge  Hall,  exactly  as  it  was  when  Washington 


THOUGHTS   TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  121 

Irving  described  it,  and  with  all  the  same  people.  It 
need  not  be  said  that  in  fact  the  Christmas  time  and 
its  surroundings  are  quite  different  from  all  this.  You 
sit  down  by  yourself,  and  try  to  get  up  the  feeling  of 
the  time  by  reading  Washington  Irving  and  Mr.  Dickens's 
Christmas  Carol.  The  Illustrated  London  News  is  a 
great  help  to  ordinary  imaginations  at  that  season. 
On  the  actual  Christmas-day,  rainy,  muddy,  tooth- 
aching,  ill-tempered,  you  turn  over  the  pictures  in  that 
excellent  journal  ;  and  you  find  the  ideal  Christmas 
there.  My  friend  Smith  once  told  how  he  spent  his 
first  Christmas-day  in  his  little  country  parsonage. 
Luckily  there  was  snow.  He  provided  that  his  ser- 
vants, three  in  number,  should  have  the  means  of  a  little 
enjoyment.  He  worked  hard  all  the  forenoon  writing 
a  sermon,  whose  subject  was  not  the  Nativity.  And 
for  an  hour  before  dinner  he  walked  alone,  up  and  down 
a  little  gravelled  walk  with  evergreens  on  each  side, 
looking  at  the  leaden  sky  and  the  solitary  fields,  and 
trying  to  feel  as  if  he  were  at  Bracebridge  Hall.  He 
tried  with  small  success.  Then,  having  dined  in  soli- 
tude on  turkey  and  plum-pudding,  he  read  the  pleasant 
Christmas  chapter  in  Pickwick,  and  tried  to  get  up  an 
enthusiasm  about  the  enjoyment  which,  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  might  be  conceived  as  existing  in  many 
houses  that  night.  Finally,  he  concluded  that  he  was 
unsuccessfully  trying  to  humbug  himself,  and  ended  by 
reading  Butler's  Analogy  in  a  good  deal  of  bitterness  of 
heart. 

Very  early  in  our  intelligent  life,  our  personality  be- 
gins to  cut  us  off  from  tliose  nearest  us.     Unless  a  pa- 
rent have  a  much  deeper  insight  and   sympathy   thaa 
6 


122  ON   THE  FOREST   HILL: 

most  parents  have,  he  loses  knowledge  very  early  of 
the  veal  inward  life  of  his  children.  At  first,  it  is  like 
wading  in  shallow  water ;  but  it  is  not  long  till  it  shelves 
down  into  depths  beyond  your  diving.  The  little 
thoughtful  face  you  see  every  day ;  the  little  heart 
within  you  know  just  as  much  as  you  know  the  outer 
side  of  the  moon.  No  doubt,  if  this  be  so,  it  is  in  a 
great  measure  your  own  fault.  There  are  many  parents 
to  whom  their  children,  young  or  old,  would  no  more 
confide  the  things  they  really  care  for  and  think  about 
than  they  would  confide  these  to  the  first  cabman  at  the 
next  stand.  But  beyond  this,  the  little  tilings  soon 
begin  to  have  a  world  of  their  own,  not  known  to  any 
but  themselves.  You  may  have  known  young  children 
who  wearied  for  the  hour  when  they  might  get  to  bed, 
and  begin  to  think  again  ;  take  up  the  history  where 
they  left  it  off  last  night.  Of  course,  the  history  and 
the  world  were  very  different  from  the  fact.  Kings  and 
queens,  heroes  and  giants,  elves  and  fairies,  palaces  and 
castles,  these  being  oftentimes  enclianted,  were  common 
there.  Also  clear  views  of  the  kind  of  life  they  would  live 
when  they  grew  up ;  a  life  in  which  coaches  and  six, 
suits  of  armor,  and  the  like,  were  not  unknown. 

It  is  a  mercy  for  some  peo])le,  that  circumstances 
keep  them  down.  Their  lot  circumscribes  their  oppor- 
tunity of  making  fools  of  themselves.  My  friend  Smith, 
already  named,  is  a  clergyman.  His  church  is  a  plain 
one.  Such  is  his  craze  for  Gothic  architecture,  that  I 
tremble  to  think  what  would  have  become  of  him  if  he 
had  ciianced  to  attain  a  magnificent  church  dating  from 
the  eleventh  century,  —  a  church  with  stately  ranks  of 
shafts,  echoing  aisles,  storied  window,  crusaders'  statues, 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  123 

rich  oak  carving,  and  monumental  brasses,  standing 
amid  grand  old  trees.  I  i'ear  lie  would  have  spent  great 
part  of  bis  time  in  admiring  and  enjoying  the  structure  ; 
in  sitting  on  a  gravestone  outside  and  looking  at  it; 
in  walking  up  and  down  inside  it,  and  the  like.  It 
would  have  been  a  great  feature  in  his  life.  It  is  much 
safer  and  better  that  he  has  been  spared  that  temptation. 
The  grand  building,  of  cqurse,  has  fallen  to  somebody 
who  does  not  care  for  it  at  all.  In  a  former  age,  there 
was  a  barrister  who  would  have  keenly  enjoyed  being 
made  a  judge.  Probably  no  man  ever  made  adjudge 
would  have  delighted  so  much  in  the  little  accessories 
of  that  eminent  position,  —  the  curious  garb,  and  the 
varied  dignity  wherewith  the  administrators  of  the  law 
are  surrounded.  How  tremendously  set  up  he  would 
have  been,  if  he  could  once  have  sentenced  a  man  to  be 
hanged!  The  writer  was  present  when  the  name  of 
that  person  was  suggested  to  an  individual  who  could 
have  made  him  what  he  wished  to  be.  That  individual 
was  asked  whether  he  might  not  do.  That  individual 
did  not  open  his  lips,  but  he  shook  his  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side  several  times.  For  thus  goes  on  this 
world. 

Probably  most  human  beings,  now  and  then,  have 
short  glimpses  of  cheerfulness  and  light-heartedness, 
which  make  them  think  how  much  more  and  better 
might  be  made  of  this  life.  You  have  seen  a  charm- 
ing scene,  bathed  in  a  glorious  sunshine,  and  you  have 
thought.  Now,  it  might  always  be  like  this.  Sometimes 
there  comes  a  hopefulness  of  spirit,  in  which  all  ditlioul- 
ties  and  perplexities  vanish ;  in  which  everything  seems 
delightful,  and  all  creatures  good.     This  is  the  potential 


124  ON  THE   FOREST   HILL: 

of  happiness  in  man.  Of  course,  it  is  seldom  reached, 
and  never  for  long.  Most  people  are  more  familiar 
with  the  converse  case,  in  which  everything  looks  dark 
and  amiss,  —  the  season  of  perplexity,  despondency,  de- 
pression. Probably  this  comes  many  times  more  fre- 
quently than  the  other.  Let  me  say,  my  reader,  that 
we  know  the  reason  why. 

Tlie  truth  is,  it  is  not  needful  to  our  enjnyment  of 
many  things  that  we  should  fancy  any  connexion  be- 
tween ourselves  and  them.  You  read  a  pleasant  story, 
and  like  it,  without  fancying  yourself  its  hero  or  hero- 
ine. Never  in  your  life,  perhaps,  have  you  spent  a  week 
in  a  house  like  Bracebridge  Hall ;  and  you  are  never 
likely  to  do  that.  Yet  you  enjoy  the  sunshiny  volume ; 
and  you  thank  its  author  for  many  hours  of  quiet, 
thoughtful  enjoyment,  for  which  you  felt  the  better. 
And,  indeed,  much  of  what  is  pleasing  and  beautiful  you 
enjoy  most  when  you  never  think  of  it  in  relation  to 
yourself.  Take  the  most  pleasing  development  of  hu- 
man comeliness,  which  is  doubtless  in  the  case  of  young 
women.  Let  it  be  admitted  that  there  are  few  things 
more  pleasing  and  interesting  to  the  rightly-constituted 
mind  than  the  sight  of  sweet  girlish  faces  and  graceful 
girlish  forms,  and  the  tones  of  the  pleasant  voices  that 
generally  go  with  them.  But  there  is  no  doubt  earthly, 
that  in  giave  middle  age,  you  have  much  more  real 
pleasure  in  these  things  than  in  feverish  youth.  Let  us 
suppose,  my  reader,  that  you  are  a  man  in  years.  Those 
who  were  J'oung  gii-ls  in  your  day  are  middle-aged 
women  now :  they  are  past.  But  you  look  with  the 
kindest  interest  on  the  fair  young  faces  of  another  gen- 
eration.    A  young  lad  is  eager  to  commend  himself  to 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING   DREAM-LIFE.  125 

the  notice  and  admiration  of  these  agreeable  humaji  be- 
ings. He  is  filled  with  bitter  enmity  at  other  lads  more 
successful  than  hmiself  in  gaining  their  favor.  His 
whole  state  of  mind  in  the  circumstances  leads  him  into 
a  host  of  absurdities :  the  contemplative  mind  sees  him 
in  the  light  of  an  ass.  Now,  you  are  beyond  and  above 
all  these  things.  You  look  with  pure  pleasure  and  kind- 
ness at  the  fairest  beings  of  God's  creation ;  and  you 
look  at  the  fair  sight  and  enjojr  it  as  jou  look  at  Ben 
Lomond,  or  at  the  setting  sun,  without  the  faintest  wish 
to  make  it  your  own.  It  is  the  entire  absence  of  per- 
sonal interest  that  makes  your  interest  so  pleasant,  and 
so  unmingled  with  any  disagreeable  feeling.  I  remem- 
ber to  have  read,  in  a  religious  biograjihy,  a  statement 
made  by  a  very  clever  and  good  man  about  a  certain 
beautiful  girl,  called  away  in  early  youth.  "I  found 
myself,"  he  said,  "  looking  at  her  with  an  interest  for 
which  I  could  not  account."  Was  that  unsophisticated 
simplicity  real  ?  Not  able  to  account  for  the  interest 
with  which  you  look  at  a  })Ieasant  sight!  I  think  it 
might  be  accounted  for.  Thougli  mdeed  when  we  go  to 
first  princi})les,  we  get  beyond  the  reach  of  logical  ex- 
planation. In  strictness,  you  may  not  be  able  to  say 
why  the  tear  comes  to  your  eye  when  yon  look  at  a 
number  of  little  children,  and  think  what  is  before  them. 
In  strictness,  you  may  not  be  able  to  say  why  it  was  that 
so  many  people  found  themselves  shedding  tears,  on  a 
day  in  Westminster  Abbey,  when  they  saw  the  Crown 
placed  on  the  bead  of  a  certain  young  girl  who,  in  alter 
years,  was  destined  to  gain  the  love  of  most  hearts  in 
IJritain  as  the  best  of  Queens.  Yet  a  great  many 
thoughtful  persons  have  recorded  that  they  were  affected 


126 


ON  THE   FOREST   HILL. 


alike  »in  beholding  that  sight.     So  there  must  have  been 
something  iu  the  sight  to  awaken  the  emotion. 

These  are  the  things  of  which  the  writer  thought  in 
the  circumstances  already  set  out.  Probably  it  has  maae 
you  sleepy  to  read  all  this.  It  had  the  contrary  etlect 
to  write  it ;  for  when  the  writer  at  length  wearily  soughc 
his  couch,  he  could  not  sleep  at  all. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

A   EEMINISCENCE    OF    THE    OLD    TIME  :    BEINft 
SOME   THOUGHTS   ON  GOING  AWAY. 


AM  sure  you  know  how,  as  we  advance  m 
life,  hours  come  in  which  we  feel  an  impulse 
to  sit  down  for  a  little,  and  try  to  revive  an 
'M  old  feeling,  before  it  dies  away;  and  many 
of  our  old  feelings  are  dying  away,  and  will  ultimately 
die  out  altogether.  It  is  partly  through  use,  and  partly 
because  our  system,  physical  and  psychical,  is  growing 
less  sensitive  as  we  go  on.  We  do  not  feel  things  now  as 
we  used  to  do.  We  are  getting  stronger,  the  robuster 
nerves  of  middle  age  do  not  receive  the  vivid  impres- 
sions of  earlier  years,  and  there  are  faintly-flavored 
things  which  they  cease  to  appreciate  at  all.  We  have 
come  out  from  the  green  fields,  and  from  the  shady 
woodlands,  and  we  are  plodding  along  the  beaten  high- 
way of  life.  It  is  the  noon  now,  not  perhaps  without 
some  tendency  to  decline  towards  evening ;  and  we  look 
back  to  the  dawn  and  to  tlie  morning,  when  the  air  was 
cool  and  fresh,  and  when  the  sky  was  clear.  And  we 
have  grown  hardened  to  the  rougher  work  of  the  pres- 
ent time.  AVe  have  all  got  lines  pretty  deeply  drawn 
upon  our  faces,  and  a  good  many  gray  hairs.     And  if 


128  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

one  could  see  a  middle-aged  soui,  no  doubt  you  would 
see  about  it  sometliing  analogous  to  being  wrinkled  and 
gray.  No  doubt  you  would  likewise  discern  sometliing 
analogous  to  the  thickening  and  toughening  of  the  skin 
in  the  case  of  the  middle-aged  hand.  Neither  hand  nor 
heart  feels  so  keenly. 

There  is  no  help  for  it,  but  still  one  cannot  help  re- 
gretting it,  the  way  in  which  tilings  lose  their  first  fresh 
relish  by  use.  We  ought  to  be  getting  more  enjoyment 
out  of  things  than  we  do.  A  host  of  very  small  mat- 
ters, which  we  pass  without  ever  noticing,  would  ail'urd 
us  real  and  sensible  pleasure  if  we  had  not  grown  so 
accustomed  to  them.  Prince  Lee  Boo,  as  we  used  to 
read,  was  moved  to  ecstatic  wonder  and  delight  by  the 
upriglit  walls  and  the  flat  ceiling  of  an  ordinary  room. 
They  were  new  to  him.  There  was  a  young  Indian 
chief,  many  years  ago,  who  came  from  the  Far  West  to 
London,  and  was  for  a  season  a  lion  in  i'ashionable 
society.  He  was  a  manly,  clever  young  fellow,  but  in 
bis  English  months  he  never  got  over  his  unsophisti- 
cated enjoyment  of  the  furniture  of  English  houses. 
And  thoughtless  folk  despised  him,  when  they  ought 
ralher  to  have  envied  him,  as  they  witnessed  his  delight 
in  the  contemplation  of  a  dinner-table  where  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  see  a  stretched  bull's  hide,  and  of 
jilates,  knives  and  forks,  car])ets,  mirrors,  window-cur- 
tuins,  and  wash-hand  stands.  All  these  great  luxuries, 
and  a  thousand  more,  Jie  ni)i)reciatcd  at  their  true  value; 
while  civilized  men  and  women,  through  familiarity, 
liad  arrived  at  contempt  of  them.  Which  was  right, 
the  civilized  folk  or  the  savage  man  ?  Is  it  tlie  human 
being  who   sees   least  in  the   things  around  him   that 


THE  OLD   TBIE.  129 

ought  to  be  proud,  or  is  not  the  man  ratlier  to  be  envied 
who  discerns  in  simple  matters  qualities  and  excellences 
which  others  do  not  discern  ?  If  you  had  so  worn  out 
your  eyes  by  constant  use  that  you  could  no  longer  see, 
that  would  be  nothing  to  plume  yourself  on  ;  you  would 
have  no  right  to  think  you  had  attained  a  position  of 
superiority  to  the  remainder  of  the  human  race,  in 
whom  the  optic  nerve  still  retained  its  sensitiveness. 
Yet  there  are  people  who  ai-e  quite  proud  tiiat  their 
mind  lias  had  its  nerves  of  sensation  partially  ])aralyzed, 
and  who  woidd  like  you  to  think  that  those  nerves  are 
entirely  paralyzed.  "  I  don't  remark  these  things," 
they  will  say  with  an  air  of  disdain,  wlien  you  point  out 
to  them  some  of  the  little  material  advantages  which  we 
enjoy  in  this  country  now-a-days.  They  convey  that 
they  think  you  must  be  a  weak-mmded  person  because 
you  do  remark  these  things,  because  you  still  feel  it  a 
curious  thing  to  leave  London  in  the  morning,  and  after 
ten  hours  and  a  half  of  uniatiguing  travelling  to  reach 
EiUnbuigh  in  the  evening;  or  because  you  still  are  con- 
scious of  a  simple-minded  wonder  when  you  send  a  mes- 
sage five  hundred  miles,  and  get  your  answer  back  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  If  tliere  be  a  mortal  whom  I  de- 
spise, it  is  the  man  who  is  anxious  to  impress  you  with 
the  fact  that  he  does  not  care  in  the  least  for  anything. 
The  human  being  who  is  proud  because  he  has  reached 
the  nil  admirari  stage  is  just  a  human  being  who  is 
proud  because  a  creeping  paralysis  has  numbed  his 
soul. 

Yet  without  g  ving  in  to  it,  and   without  being   proud 
of  it,  yi)U  are  a.\  are  tliat  the  keen  relish  goes  fVoni  that 
which  you  grow  accustomed  to.     I  have  indeed  lieard  it 
6*  I 


130  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

Paid  conceniing  certain  individuals  whose  supercilious 
and  lofty  air  testified  that  some  sudden  rise  in  life  had 
turned  their  head,  tliat  they  hved  in  a  state  of"  constant 
surprise  at  finding  themselves  so  respectable.  But  this 
etatement  was  not  true  in  its  full  extent.  For  after 
being  for  several  years  in  a  position  for  which  nature 
never  intended  him,  even  Dr.  Bumptious  (before  his 
elevation  his  name  was  Toady)  must  have  grown  to  a 
certain  measure  accustomed  to  it.  Even  other  people 
got  accustomed  to  it.  And  tliough  his  incompetence  for 
his  ])lace  remained  just  as  glaring  as  ever,  they  ceased 
to  remark  it,  and  came  to  accept  it  as  something  in  the 
nature  of  things.  You  know,  we  do  not  perjilex  our- 
selves by  inquiring  every  morning  why  there  are  such 
creatures  as  wasps,  toads,  and  rattlesnakes.  But  if 
these  beings  were  of  a  sudden  introduced  into  this  world 
for  the  first  time,  it  would  be  difi'erent. 

It  is  to  be  lamented  that  the  very  fresh  and  sensible 
enjoyment  which  we  derive  from  very  little  things,  when 
they  are  new  to  us,  passes  so  comjiletely  away  when 
they  grow  familiar.  I  remark  that  my  fellow-creatures, 
who  inhabit  houses  in  this  street,  are  very  far  from  being 
duly  thankful  for  tlie  great  privilege  we  posses  in  hav- 
ing a  post-office  at  the  end  of  it.  You  write  your  let- 
ters in  the  forenoon  after  you  have  completed  your  more 
serious  work,  and  upon  each  enveloj)e  you  stick  the  rep- 
resentation of  a  face  which  is  very  familiar  to  us  all, 
and  very  dcai".  If  you  are  a  Avise  man,  you  post  your 
letters  for  yourself;  and  accordingly  the  first  thing  you 
do  daily,  when  you  go  forth  to  your  out-door  business  or 
duty,  is  to  proceed  to  that  little  opening  which  receives 
the  expression  of  so  much  care,  so  much  kindness,  so 


I 


THE   OLD   TIME.  131 

much  worry,  so  much  joy  and  sorrow,  and  to  drop  the 
documents  in.  Not  many  of  the  human  beings  who  post 
letters  and  who  receive  tliem  have  any  habitual  sem-e  of 
the  supreme  luxury  they  enjoy  in  that  familiar  institu- 
tion of  the  post-office.  Into  that  little  opening  goes 
your  letter ;  a  penny  secures  its  admission,  and  obtains 
for  it  very  distinguished  consideration;  and  in  a  little 
while  the  most  ingenious  mechanism  that  has  been  de- 
vised by  the  most  ingenious  minds  is  hard  at  work  con- 
veying your  letter,  at  tremendous  speed,  by  land  or  pea ; 
till  next  morning,  unerring  as  the  eagle  upon  its  eyrie, 
it  swoops  down  upon  the  precise  dwelling  at  which  you 
aimed  it.  When  I  say  it  swoops  down  upon  a  dwelling 
in  the  country,  I  mean  to  express  poetically  the  fact 
that  it  comes  jogging  along  in  a  cart  drawn  by  a  little 
white  pony,  which  stops  lor  the  purposes  of  conveisation 
whenever  it  meets  anybody  in  tlie  wooded  lane  I  have 
in  my  mind.  But  in  saying  that  the  inhabitants  of  this 
street  are  not  duly  thankful  for  the  post-office  at  the  cor- 
ner, I  did  not  mean  merely  that  they  fail  to  undei-stand 
what  a  blessing  to  Britain  the  system  of  postal  commu- 
nication is.  Elverybody,  on  ordinary  days,  iails  to  un- 
derstand that.  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  I 
was  lliinking  of  the  luxury  of  having  a  i-eceiving-liouse 
so  near.  When  I  lived  in  the  country,  the  post-olfice 
was  five  miles  distant ;  and  if  you  mif^sed  the  chance  of 
sending  away  your  letters  in  the  morning  by  the  cart 
drawn  by  the  white  pony,  you  must  wait  till  next  day, 
or  you  must  send  a  special  messenger  to  the  old-fash- 
ioned town  of  red  freestone  dwelling>,  standing  by  a 
classic  river's  side.  Let  not  that  town  be  mentioned 
save  in  complimentary  terms.     Let   me   learn    by  the 


132  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

misfortune  of  anotlier.  ^An  eminent  native  of  the  dis- 
trict wliich  suri-ounds  it,  known  in  tlie  world  of  letters, 
once  upon  a  time  j)ul)]islied  some  remarks  upon  that 
town,  disguising  its  pretty  name  in  another  of  somewhat 
ludicrous  sound.  And  when  that  eminent  man  shortly 
afterwards  strove  to  persuade  the  inhabitants  to  send 
him  to  represent  them  in  I'arliament,  the  old  offence 
was  raked  up,  and  it  did  him  harm.  This,  however,  is 
a  digression.  Let  us  return.  When  I  came  from  the 
country,  to  live  in  tiiis  city,  I  felt  it  a  great  jjrivilege, 
and  something  to  be  enjoyed  fresldy  every  time,  to  take 
my  letters  to  the  post-othce,  two  hundred  yards  off.  It 
was  delightful.  Not  once  in  the  da3%  but  (if  need  were) 
half  a  dozen  times,  could  you  write  your  letter,  and  iu 
three  minutes  have  it  in  the  post-office.  Tliere  was 
something  very  fresh  and  enjoyable  in  the  reflection,  as 
you  stood  by  the  receiving-house  window,  Now  here  in 
these  minutes  I  am  in  the  same  position  in  wiiich  half 
an  hour's  smart  driving,  or  an  hour  and  a  quarter's 
steady  walking,  would  have  placed  one  in  departed 
days!  AVonderful  !  But  now,  after  several  years  of 
the  enjoyment  of  this  privilege,  the  fiesh  wonder  has 
worn  away.  The  edge  of  enjoyment  is  dulled.  Ajid 
tliough  I  try  hard,  in  going  to  the  post-office,  to  feel 
what  a  blessing  it  is,  I  caimot  feel  it  as  I  would  wish. 
Yes,  the  enjoyment  of  the  post-office  is  gone  in  great 
measure  ;  even  as  tlie  unutterable  greenness  discerned 
by  the  stranger  goes  fi'om  the  summer  trees  among 
which  you  have  come  to  feel  yourself  at  liome ;  even  a.s 
the  sound  of  Niagara  becomes  inaudible  to  the  waiU;rs 
at  the  Niagara  Hotel ;  even  as  the  bishop  who  was 
plucked  at  college  gradually  ceases  to  be  astonished  at 


I 


THE   OLD   TIME.  133 

finding  himself  a  bishop ;  even  as  Miss  Smith,  in  a  few 
weeks  after  she  is  married,  no  longer  feels  it  strange  to 
be  called  Mrs.  Jones  ;  even  as  the  readers  of  what  is 
with  bitter  irony  called  a  religious  newspaper  lose  their 
first  bewilderment  at  finding  a  human  animal  writing  an 
article  filled  with  intentional  misrepresentation,  lying, 
and  slandering,  and  ending  the  article  by  taking  God  to 
witness  that  in  abusing  the  man  he  hates  for  his  snccess 
and  eminence,  he  is  actuated  by  a  simple  regard  to  the 
Divine  glory. 

And  thus  it  is,  remembering  how  the  old  time  and  the 
old  way  fade  out,  that  the  writer  has  resolved  to  give  a 
little  space  of  comparative  rest  to  reviving  (as  far  as 
may  be)  something  which  used  to  have  a  strongly  felt 
character  of  its  own  in  years  which  are  gone,  and  which 
are  melting  into  blue  distance  fast.  Let  me  seek  to 
bring  up  again  the  atmosphere  of  Going  Away,  as  it 
used  to  be,  and  to  be  felt.  No  doubt  there  is  a  certain 
fancifulness  about  moral  atniosplieres ;  not  all  men  feel 
tliem  alike;  and  there  are  robust  natures  which  probably 
do  not  feel  them  at  all.  When  a  man  comes  to  desci'ibe 
a  house,  a  landscape,  a  mode  of  liie,  not  as  these  are  in 
literal  fact,  but  as  these  impress  himself,  then  we  get 
into  a  realm  of  uncertainty  and  fancy.  When  a  man 
ceases  to  say  of  a  dwelling  that  it  is  built  of  red  brick, 
that  it  has  so  many  windows  in  front,  that  it  is  so  many 
stories  high,  that  it  lia>  evergreens  of  such  kinds  roun^l 
it,  and  the  like  ;  and  when  the  man  goes  on  to  describe 
the  house  by  quite  other  characteristics,  —  saying  that  it 
is  a  sleepy -looking  house,  a  dull  house,' a  hospitable- 
looking  house,  an  eerie  strange-looking  house,  a  house 
that  makes  vou  feel  queer,  —  then  you  I'cel  that  though 


134  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

the  man  may  convey  to  another  man,  who  is  in  sympathy 
with  himself,  a  very  true  impression  of  tlie  fact  as  it 
presents  itself  to  him,  still  there  are  many  people  to 
whom  such  descriptions  are  really  quite  unintelligible ; 
and  that  those  who  are  most  capable  of  understanding 
them  are  least  likely  to  agree  as  to  their  truth.  It  is  so 
with  what  I  have  called  moral  atmospheres  ;  the  per- 
vading characteristic  of  a  time,  a  scene,  a  way  of  life,  a 
human  being.  Nor  can  it  be  admitted  that  there  is  any- 
thing of  morbid  sensiiivencss  in  being  keenly  aware  of 
these.  Most  people  know  the  vague  sort  of  sense  that 
you  have  of  being  in  a  remote  pastoral  country,  or  of 
being  in  a  busy  town.  You  feel  a  difference  in  the 
morning  whenever  you  awake,  and  before  you  liave  fully 
gathered  up  your  consciousness  ;  it  pervades  your  very 
dreams.  You  remember  periods  of  your  life  about 
which  there  was  a  kind  of  flavor ;  strongly  felt,  but  in- 
describable to  others ;  not  to  be  expressed  in  any  spoken 
words  ;  Mendelssohn  or  Beethoven  might  have  come 
near  expressing  it  in  music ;  and  it  comes  back  upon 
you  in  reading  some  passage  in  In  Memoriam  which  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  or  in  looking  at  the  hrst  yellow  cro- 
cus in  tlie  cold  March  sunshine,  or  in  walking  along  a 
Line  with  blossoming  hawthorn  on  either  hand,  or  in 
smelling  the  bios  oms  of  an  apple-tree.  And  when  you 
look  back,  you  feel  the  atmosphere  surround  you  again 
^yith  its  fragrance  a  good  deal  gone,  and  with  its  colors 
faded.  It  is  a  misty,  ghost-like  image  of  a  past  life  and 
its  surroundings  tliat  f^teals  vaguely  before  your  mental 
sight  ;  and  possibly  it  cannot  be  more  accurately  or 
expressively  de-cribed  than  by  saying  that  tlie  old  time 
comes  over  you. 


I 


THE    OLD   TIME.  135 

Doubtless  external  scenery  lias  a  great  deal  to  do  in 
the  production  of  tliat  crenoral  sense  of  a  character  per- 
vading one's  whole  mode  of  life,  which  I  mean  by  a 
moral  atmosphere.  It  is  especially  so  if  you  lead  a 
lonely  life,  or  if  you  have  not  many  companions,  and 
these  not  very  energetic  or  striking.  How  well  many 
men  in  orders  remember  the  peculiar  flavor  of  the  time 
when  they  first  began  their  parochial  duty !  Years  af- 
terwards, you  go  and  walk  up  and  down  in  the  church 
where  you  preached  your  first  sermons,  and  you  try  to 
awaken  the  feeling  of  tliat  departed  time.  It  comes 
back  in  a  ghostly,  unsubstantial  way ;  sometimes  it  re- 
fuses to  be  wakened  up  at  all.  And  the  feeling,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  is  (to  many  men)  very  mainly  flavored 
by  the  outward  scene  in  which  that  time  was  spent.  I 
can  easily  believe  that  tiiere  are  persons  on  whose  mood 
and  character  no  appreciable  impression  is  produced  by 
external  scenery  :  probably  tlie  reader  knows  one  or  two. 
They  have  usually  high  cheek-bones,  smoke-dried  com- 
plexions, and  disagreeable  voices  ;  they  think  Mr.  Ten- 
nyson a  fool,  and  tell  you  that  they  cannot  understand 
him,  in  a  tone  that  conveys  that  in  their  judgment  no- 
body can.  I  have  known  men  who  declared  honestly 
that  they  did  not  thinlv  Westminster  Abbey  in  the  least 
a  moi'O  solemn  })lace  than  a  red  brick  meeting-house  with 
a  flat  ceiling,  and  with  its  inner  walls  chastely  white- 
washed, or  papered  with  a  paper  representing  yellow 
marble.  My  acquaintance  with  such  individuals  was 
slight,  and  by  mutual  consent  it  speedily  ceased.  Give 
us  the  man  who  frankly  tells  you  how  dilferent  a  man 
he  is  in  this  place  from  what  he  is  in  that,  how  outward 
nature  casts  its  light  or  its  shadow  upon  all  his  thinking 


136  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

and  feeling.  "Wliat  would  you  be.  my  friend,  if  you  lived 
for  months  by  a  misty  Shetland  sea,  or  amid  a  wild  Irish 
bogland,  or  in  a  wooden  clullet  at  Meyringeu,  or  on  a  ilut 
French  plain,  with  white  ribbons  of  highway  stretching 
across  it,  bordered  with  weary  poplars ;  or  under  the 
shadow  of  castle-crowned  crags  upon  the  Rhine,  or  amid 
the  bustle  of  a  great  commercial  town,  or  in  the  classic 
air  of  an  ancient  university  city,  with  a  feast  of  Gothic 
everywhere  for  the  eyes,  and  with  courts  of  velvety  turf 
that  has  been  velvety  turf  for  ages  ?  But  here  I  get 
into  the  region  of  the  fanciful ;  and  though  holding  very 
strongly  a  certain  theoiy  about  these  things,  I  am  not 
going  to  set  it  out  here.  Yet  I  cannot  but  believe  that, 
when  you  read  men's  written  thouglits,  j'ou  may  readily, 
if  you  be  of  a  sensitive  nature,  feel  the  surroundings 
amid  which  they  were  written.  Turn  over  the  volume 
which  was  written  in  the  country  by  a  man  keenly  alive 
to  outward  things  and  their  influences,  and  you  will  be 
aware  of  a  breeziness  about  the  pages,  —  a  fresher  air 
seems  to  breathe  from  them,  the  atmosphere  of  that  sim- 
ple life  and  its  little  cares.  Turn  over  the  Best  of  all 
books :  read  especially  the  accounts  of  patriarchal  times 
in  Genesis:  and  (inspiration  a]>art)  you  will  feel  the 
presence  of  something  indefinitely  more  than  the  bare 
facts  recorded.  You  will  feel  the  fresh  breeze  come  to 
you  over  the  ocean  of  intervening  centuries :  you  will 
know  that  a  whole  life  and  its  interests  surround  you 
again.  And  there  seems  to  me  no  more  marked  ditler- 
ence  between  fictitious  stories  written  by  men  of  genius 
and  written  by  commonplace  people  than  this,  that  the 
commonplace  people  make  you  aware  of  just  the  inci- 
dents they  record,  while  the  man  of  genius  makes  you 


I 


THE   OLD   TIME.  137 

aware  of  a  vast  deal  more,  —  of  the  entire  atmosphere 
of  the  surrounding  circumstances  and  concerns  and  life. 
You  will  undei'Stand  what  is  meant  when  I  remind  you 
of  the  wonderful  way  in  which  the  battle  of  Waterloo  is 
made  to  surround  and  pervade  a  certain  portion  of  the 
train  of  events  recorded  in  tliat  thoroughly  true  histoiy, 
Mr.  Thackeray's  Vanity  Fair. 

Now  all  that  is  pleasant.  I  mean  to  the  writer,  not 
necessarily  to  the  reader.  The  writer  has  to  produce 
a  multitude  of  pages,  which  to  produce  is  of  the  nature 
of  grave  work  ;  and  in  them  he  must  hold  right  on,  and 
discuss  his  subject  under  iio  small  sense  of  responsibility. 
But  such  pages  as  this  are  his  play ;  and  he  may  with- 
out rebuke  turn  hither  and  thither,  and  pluck  the  wild 
flowers  on  either  side  of  the  path.  O  how  hard  work  it 
is  to  write  a  sermon ;  and,  when  one  is  in  the  vein,  how 
easy  it  is  to  write  an  essay !  And,  in  saying  that  all 
this  is  pleasant,  the  thing  present  to  the  author's  mind 
was  the  very  devious  course  which  his  train  of  thought 
has  followed  since  the  first  sentence  of  this  dissertation 
was  written.  I  have  a  great  respect  for  certain  men, 
who  write  in  a  logical  and  scholarly  way.  I  admire 
and  esteem  such.  When  I  read  their  productions  at 
all,  I  do  so  after  breakfast,  when  one's  wits  are  fully 
awake.  But  in  the  evening,  by  the  fireside,  when  the 
day's  work  and  worry  are  over,  and  there  remains  the 
precious  little  breatliing-space,  I  would  rather  not  read 
them.     Neither  do  I  desire  here  to  write  like  them. 

Going  Away  is  my  subject.  Going  Away  and  its 
atmosphere,  as  it  used  to  be,  and  as  it  is  to  many  people 
now.  Going  Away  from  home.  Not  Going  Away  for 
ever ;  not   Going  Away  for   a  long  time ;  not  Going 


138  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

Away  under  painful  circumstances.    Ordinary  and  com- 
monplace Going  Away. 

And  let  me  tell  you,  intrepid  travellers,  who  think 
nothing  of  flying  away  to  London,  to  Paris,  to  Cha- 
mouni,  to  Constantinople,  that  Going  Away  for  a  week 
or  two,  and  to  a  distance  not  exceeding  a  hundred  railes, 
is  a  very  serious  thing  to  a  quiet,  stay-at-home  person. 
A  multitude  of  contingencies  suggest  themselves  in  its 
prospect;  there  is  the  vague  fear  of  the  great,  terrible 
outside  world.  It  is  as  when  a  little  boat,  that  has  been 
lying  safe  in  some  sheltered  cove,  puts  out  to  sea,  to 
face  the  full  might  of  winds  and  waves  ;  when  a  lonely 
human  being,  who  for  months  has  plodded  his  little 
round  of  work  and  care,  looking  at  the  same  scenes,  and 
conversing  with  the  same  ])eoi)le,  musters  courage  to  go 
away  for  a  little  while.  There  is  a  considerable  inertia 
to  overcome  ;  some  effort  of  resolution  is  needed.  "When 
you  have  lived  an  unvaried  life  for  many  weeks  in  a 
quiet  country  place,  your  wish  is  to  sit  still.  Yet  there 
are  great  advantages  which  belong  to  people  who  have 
seen  little  or  nothing.  They  have  so  keen  a  sense  of 
interest,  and  so  lively  an  impression  of  the  facts,  in  be- 
holiling  something  new.  By  and  by  they  come  to  take 
it  easily.  You  look  out  of  the  window  of  the  railway 
carriage,  and  in  rej)ly  to  something  said  by  a  i'ellow- 
traveller,  you  say,  "  Ah,  that  's  Berne,  or  that  's  Lau- 
sanne," and  you  return  to  your  limes  or  your  Saturday 
Review.  You  look  forth  on  the  left  hand,  as  the  train 
rounds  a  curve,  and  say,  "  Strasburg  spire ;  very  fine. 
Four  hundred  and  fifty  feet  liigh.  It  does  not  look 
nearly  so  much  from  this  point."  Now  once  it  was  very 
different.     It  was  a  vivid  sensation  to  see  for  the  first 


THE   OLD    TIME.  139 

time  some  town  in  England,  or  some  lake  or  hill  in 
Scotland.  My  friend  Smith  told  me  that  once,  for  more 
than  six  years,  beginning  when  he  was  eight-and-twenty, 
he  never  had  stirred  ten  miles  from  his  home  and  his 
parish,  save  when  he  went  in  the  autumn  for  a  few 
weeks  to  the  seaside ;  and  then  he  went  always  to  the 
same  place,  a  journey  of  four  hours  or  so.  It  would 
have  done  him  much  good  —  had  he  been  able  some- 
times through  those  years  which  were  very  anxious 
and  very  trying  ones — to  have  the  benefit  of  a  little 
change  of  scene.  But  he  could  not  afford  it ;  and  in 
those  days  of  depressed  fortune,  he  had,  literally,  not  a 
friend  in  this  world,  beyond  the  little  circle  of  his  own 
home.  He  had,  indeed,  some  acquaintances ;  but  they 
were  able  to  understand  him  or  sympathize  with  him 
about  as  much  as  a  donkey  could.  But  better  days 
came,  as  (let  us  trust)  they  will  come,  througli  hard 
work  and  self-denial,  to  most  men,  by  God's  blessing ; 
and  Smith  could  venture  on  the  great  enterjirise  of  a 
journey  to  London.  Ah  !  an  express  train  was  a  great 
thing  to  him  ;  and  a  journey  of  three  hundred  miles  an 
endless  pilgrimage.  And  he  told  me  himself  (he  is  in 
his  grave  now,  and  no  one  who  knew  him  will  know 
him  by  what  has  been  said  of  him)  that  it  was  an  extra- 
ordinary feeling  to  look  out  of  the  carriage-window,  and 
to  tliink.  Now  Cambridge  is  only  a  few  miles  off,  over 
these  iiats  !  And  iiirther  on,  when  tlie  trains  glided  by 
the  capital  of  the  Fens,  and  the  noble  mass  of  Peter- 
borough Catht'dral  loomed  through  the  misty  morning, 
it  was  a  stranger  object  to  him  than  St.  Sophia  or  even 
the  Mosque  of  Omar  would  be  to  you ;  and  he  thought 
how  curious  a  thiuij  it  would  be  to  live  on  that  wide 


140  A  REMINISCENCE   OF 

plain,  in  that  quiet  little  city,  under  the  shadow  of  that 
magiiifieent  pile.  Probably,  my  friend,  you  have  been 
long  enough  in  many  striking  places  to  feel  their  first 
interest  and  impression  go,  to  feel  their  moral  atmos- 
phere become  inappreciable.  You  feel  all  tliat  keenly 
at  first ;  but  gradually  the  place  becomes  just  like  any- 
where else.  Ai'ter  a  while,  the  inner  atmosphere  over- 
powers the  outer ;  the  world  within  the  breast  gives  its 
tone  and  color  to  the  scene  around  you.  I  believe 
firmly,  that  if  you  want  to  know  a  place  vividly  and 
really  (I  mean  a  town  of  moderate  extent),  you  ought  to 
stay  in  it  just  a  day  and  no  more.  By  remaining  longer, 
you  may  come  to  know  all  the  churches  and  shops,  and 
the  like ;  but  you  will  lose  the  pervading  atmosphere 
and  character  of  the  whole.  First  impressions  are  always 
the  most  vivid ;  and  I  firmly  believe  they  are  in  the 
vast  majority  of  cases  the  most  truthful.  An  observant 
and  sensitive  man,  spending  just  a  day  in  a  town  with 
twenty  thousand  inhabitants,  knows  what  kind  of  place 
that  town  is  far  better  than  an  ordinarily  observant 
person  who  has  lived  in  it  for  twenty  years. 

The  truth  is,  that  a  little  of  a  thing  is  usually  far 
more  impressive  than  the  whole  of  it,  or  than  a  great 
deal  of  it.  Don't  you  remember  how,  when  you  were 
a  child,  lying  in  bed  in  the  morrung,  you  used  to  watch 
the  daylight  through  the  shutters  ?  And  you  remem- 
ber how  bright  it  looked,  through  the  narrow  line  where 
the  shutters  hardly  met:  it  was  like  a  glowing  fire.  At 
length,  the  shutters  were  tiuown  back,  and  they  let  in 
all  the  day ;  and  it  was  nothing  so  bright.  Even  if  the 
morning  was  sunshiny,  there  was  a  sad  falling  off; 
and  perhaps  the  morning  was  dull  and  rainy.     Even 


THE   OLD   TIME.  141 

80  is  the  glimpse  of  Peterborough  from  tlie  passing 
express  train,  infinitely  finer  than  the  view  of  Peter- 
borough to  the  man  who  lives  in  it  all  the  year  round. 
Even  so  has  the  quiet  life  of  a  cathedral  city  a  charm 
to  the  visitor  for  a  day,  who  has  come  from  a  land 
where  cathedi-als  are  not,  which  fades  away  to  such  as 
spend  all  their  days  in  the  venerable  place,  and  come 
to  have  associations  not  merely  of  glorious  architecture 
and  sublime  mu.-ic,  but  likewise  of  many  petty  am- 
bitions, jealousies,  diplomacies,  and  disappointments  ; 
and,  in  short,  of  Mr.  Slope  and  Mrs.  Proudie.  Yes,  a 
little  of  a  thing  is  sometimes  infinitely  better  than  the 
whole  ;  and  it  is  the  little  which  esj^ecially  has  power 
to  convey  that  general  estimate  of  a  pervading  char- 
acteristic which  we  undei'stand  b}'  perceiving  the  moral 
atmosphere.  And  besides  this,  you  may  have  a  surfeit 
of  even  the  things  you  like  best.  You  heartily  enjoy 
a  little  country  Gothic  church;  you  linger  on  every 
detail  of  it ;  it  is  a  jjure  delight.  But  a  great  cathedral 
is  almost  too  much  :  it  wearies  you,  it  overwhelms  you. 
You  may  get,  through  one  summer  day,  as  much  enjoy- 
ment out  of  Sonniiig  Church  as  out  of  York  Minster. 
That  perfection  of  an  English  parish  church,  with  its 
perfect  vicarage,  by  the  beautiful  Thames,  is  like  a 
friend  with  whom  you  can  cordially  shake  hands :  the 
great  minster  is  like  a  monarch  to  be  approached  on 
bended  knee.  IMost  peo[)le  remember  a  case  in  which 
a  tliousandth  part  would  have  been  far  better  than  the 
whole :  I  mean,  the  Great  Exhibition  in  that  fine  shed 
whii'h  the  nation  declined  to  buy.  You  would  have 
enjoyed  the  sight  of  a  little  of  what  was  gathered 
there  ;  but  tlie  whole  was  a  fearful  task  to  get  through. 


142  A  REMINISCENCE   OF 

I  never  beheld  more  wearied,  dazed,  stupefied,  disgusted, 
and  miserable  couutenauces,  than  among  rich  and  poor 
under  that  roof.  I  wonder  whether  any  mortid  ever 
really  enjoyed  that  glare  and  noise  and  hubbub,  or  I'elt  his 
soul  expanded  under  the  influence  of  that  huge  educa- 
tional institution.  Too  many  magazines  or  books,  too, 
coming  together,  convert  into  a  toil  what  ought  to  be  a 
pleasure.  You  look  at  the  mass,  and  you  cannot  help 
thinking  what  a  deal  you  have  to  get  through.  And 
that  thought  is  in  all  cases  fatal  to  enjoyment.  When- 
ever it  enters  the  heart  of  a  little  boy,  contemplating 
his  third  plate  of  plum-pudding,  the  delight  implied  in 
plum-pudding  has  vanished.  Whenever  the  hearer 
listens  to  the  preacher  describing  what  he  is  to  do  in 
the  first  and  second  })lace,  and  so  on  to  the  fifth  or 
sixth,  the  enjoyment  with  which  most  sermons  are  heard 
is  sensibly  diminished.  And  even  if  you  be  very  fond 
of  books,  there  is  a  sense  of  desolation  in  being  turned 
loose  in  a  library  of  three  hundred  thousand  volumes. 
That  huge  array  is  an  incubus  on  your  sjiirit.  There 
is  far  more  sensible  ])leasure  when  you  go  into  a  friend's 
snug  little  study,  and  diligently  survey  liis  thousand  or 
twelve  hundred  books.  And  you  know  that  if  a  man 
has  a  drawing-room  a  hundred  feet  long,  he  takes  jiaius 
to  convert  that  large  room  into  a  little  one,  by  enclosing 
a  wann  space  round  the  fire  with  great  screens  for 
his  evening  retreat.  Yes,  a  little  is  generally  much 
better  than  a  great  deal. 

A  thing  which  precedes  Going  Away  is  packing  up. 
And  this  the  wise  man  will  do  for  himself,  the  more  so 
if  he  cannot  afford  to  liavc  any  one  to  do  it  for  him. 
Tliere  is  a  great  pleasure  in  doing  things  for  yourself. 


THE   OLD   TIME.  143 

And  here  is  one  of  the  compensations  of  poverty.  Yoa 
open  for  yourself  the  parcel  of  new  books  you  have 
bought,  and  with  your  own  hand  you  cut  the  leaves. 
A  great  peer,  of  course,  could  not  do  this,  I  supi^ose. 
The  volumes  would  be  prepared  for  his  reading,  and 
laid  before  him  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  read  them. 
Now,  it  ought  to  be  understood,  that  the  reading  of  a 
book  is  by  no  means  the  only  use  you  can  put  it  to,  or 
the  only  good  you  can  get  out  of  it.  There  is  the  en- 
joyment of  stripping  off  the  massive  wrappings  in  which 
the  volumes  travelled  from  the  bookseller's  shop, 
through  devious  ways,  to  the  country  home.  There  is 
the  enjoyment  of  cutting  the  leaves,  which,  if  you  have 
a  large  ivory  paper  knife,  is  a  very  sensible  one.  There 
is  the  enjoyment  of  laying  the  volumes  after  their  leaves 
are  cut  upon  your  study  table,  and  sitting  down  in  an 
arm-chair  by  the  fireside,  and  calmly  and  thoughtfully 
looking  at  them.  There  is  tlie  enjoyment  of  considering 
earnestly  the  i)lace  where  they  sliall  be  put  on  your 
shelves,  and  then  of  placing  them  there,  and  of  arrang- 
ing the  volumes  which  have  been  turned  out  to  make 
room  for  them.  All  these  pleasures  you  have,  quite 
apart  from  the  act  of  reading  the  books ;  and  all  these 
pleasures  ai-e  denied  to  the  ricli  and  mighty  man  who  is 
too  great  to  be  allowed  to  do  things  for  liimself.  He 
has  only  tlie  end  :  we  have  both  the  end  and  the  means 
which  lead  up  to  it.  And  the  greater  part  of  humaa 
enjoyment  is  the  enjoyment  of  means,  not  of  ends. 
Thei-e  is  as  much  solid  satisfaction  in  going  out  and 
looking  at  your  horse  in  his  warm  stable  as  in  riding 
or  driving  Iiim.  An  eminent  sportsman  begins  a  book 
in  which  he  give«  an  account  of  his  exploits  in  hunting 


144  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

in  a  foreign  couhtrj^,  by  fondly  telling  how  happy  he 
was  in  petting  up  his  old  guns  till  they  looked  like  new, 
and  in  ^Jreparing  and  packing  ammunition  in  the  pros- 
pect of  setting  off  on  his  exjiedition.  You  can  see  that 
these  tranquil  and  busy  days  of  anticipation  and  pre- 
paration at  home  were  at  least  as  enjoyable  as  the  more 
exciting  days  of  actual  sport  which  followed.  Now, 
however  much  a  duke  might  like  to  do  all  this,  I 
suppose  his  nobility  would  oblige  him  to  forego  the 
satisfaction. 

If  you  have  a  wife  and  children  (and  for  the  pur- 
poses of  this  essay  I  suppose  you  to  have  both),  the 
multitude  of  trunks  and  packing-cases  in  which  their 
possessions  are  bestowed  in  the  prospect  of  going  away, 
are  sought  out  and  ])acked  apart  from  any  exertion  or 
superintendence  on  your  part.  Your  share  consists  iu 
writing  addresses  for  them,  and  in  counting  up  the 
twenty-three  things  that  are  assembled  in  the  lobby 
before  they  are  loaded  on  cart,  cab,  or  carriage.  I  ha\  e 
remarked  it  as  a  curious  thing,  that  when  a  man  with 
his  wife  and  two  or  tiu-ee  children  and  three  or  lour 
servants  go  to  the  seaside  in  autmnn,  the  articles  ol'  lug- 
gage invariably  amount  to  twenty-tlu'ee.  And  it  has 
ever  been  to  me  a  strange  and  perplexing  thought,  how 
so  many  trunks  and  boxes  are  needed,  and  how,  through 
various  changes  by  land  and  sea,  they  get  safely  to  tiieir 
destination.  There  are  few  positions  which  awaken 
more  gratitude  and  satisfaction  in  the  average  human 
being,  than  (liaving  arrived  at  the  seaside  place)  to  see 
the  twenty-three  things  safe  upon  the  little  pier,  after 
the  roaring  steamer  which  brought  them  has  departed, 
and  tbe  little  crowd  has  dispersed  ;  when,  amid  the  still- 


THE   OLD   TIME.  145 

ness,  suddenly  become  audible,  you  tell  the  keeper  of 
the  pier  to  send  your  baggage  to  the  dwelling  which  is 
to  be  your  temporary  home.  A  position  even  more 
gi-atifying  is  as  follows :  when,  returning  to  toAvn,  your 
holiday  over,  jou  succeed,  by  the  aid  of  two  lil^erally- 
tipped  porters,  in  recovering  all  your  effects  from  the 
luggage-van  of  the  railway-train,  amid  an  awful  crowd 
and  confusion  on  the  platform,  and  accumulating  them 
into  a  heap,  for  whose  conveyance  you  would  assuredly 
be  called  to  pay  extra  but  for  tlie  judicious  largesse 
already  alluded  to ;  then  in  seeing  them  piled  in  and 
upon  three  cabs,  in  which  you  slowly  wend  your  way  to 
your  door;  and  finally,  in  the  lobby,  whence  they  origi- 
nally started,  counting  up  your  twenty-three  things  once 
more.  Yes,  there  is  much  pleasure  attendant  on  the 
possession  and  conveyance  of  luggage  ;  a  pleasure  min- 
gled with  pain,  indeed,  like  most  of  our  pleasures ;  a 
pleasure  dashed  with  anxiety  and  clouded  with  confu- 
sion, yet  ultimately  passing  into  a  sense  of  deliglitful 
rest  and  relief,  as  you  count  up  the  twenty-three  things 
and  find  them  all  right,  which  you  had  hardly  dared  to 
hope  they  would  ever  be. 

So  much  having  been  said  concerning  the  general 
^i^og^ge  of  the  fainily,  let  us  return  to  the  tliought  of 
your  own  personal  packing.  You  pack  your  oAvn  port- 
manteau, arranging  things  hi  that  order  which  long  usage 
has  led  you  to  esteem  as  the  best.  And  if  you  be  a 
clergyman,  you  always  introduce  into  that  receptacle 
)'our  sermon-case  with  two  or  thi-ee  sermons.  You  do 
this,  if  you  be  a  wise  man,  though  there  should  not  ap- 
pear the  faintest  chance  of  your  having  to  preach  any- 
where,—  having  leai-ned  by  exi)erience  how  often  and 
7  J 


146  A   REMINISCENCE   OF 

liow  unexpectedly  such  chances  occur.  And  then,  when 
your  portmanteau  is  finally  strapped  up  and  ready  to  go, 
you  look  at  it  with  a  moralizin;^  glance,  and  think  how 
little  a  thing  it  looks  to  hold  such  a  great  deal.  It  is 
like  a  general  principle,  including  a  host  of  individual 
cases.  It  is  like  a  bold  assertion,  which  you  accept 
without  thinking  of  all  it  im])lies.  And  in  a  short  time 
that  compendium  of  things  immediately  needful  will  be 
one  among  a  score  like  it  in  the  luggage-van.  Thus,  the 
philosopher  may  reflect,  is  every  man's  own  concern  the 
most  interesting  to  himself,  because  every  man  knows 
best  what  is  involved  in  his  own  concern. 

There  are  many  associations  about  the  battei'ed  old 
leathern  object,  and  it  is  sad  to  remark  that  it  is  wear- 
ing out.  It  is  to  many  jjeople  a  sensible  trial  to  throw 
aside  anything  they  have  had  for  a  long  time.  And  tliis 
thing  especially,  which  has  faithfully  kept  so  many  things 
you  intrusted  to  it,  and  which  has  gone  with  you  to  so 
many  places,  seems  to  cast  a  silent  appealing  look  at 
you  wlien  you  think  it  is  getting  so  shabby  that  you 
must  throw  it  aside.  Some  day  you  and  I,  mj^  friend, 
will  be  like  an  old  portmanteau  ;  and  we  shall  be  pushed 
out  of  the  way  to  make  room  for  something  fresh. 
Piobably  it  is  worldly  wisdom  to  treat  trunks  and  men 
like  that  single-minded  pei-son,  Mr.  Uppish,  who  stead- 
fastly cuts  his  old  friends  as  he  gradually  gets  into  a 
superior  social  stratum.      Doubtless  he  lias  his  reward. 

It  is  invariably  on  Monday  morning  that  certain  hu- 
man beings  Go  Away,  in  the  grave  and  formal  maniiei 
which  has  been  spoken  of.  I  mean,  with  an  entire  fam- 
ily, and   with  the   twenty-three   trunks,  many  of  them 


THE   OLD   TIME.  147 

very  large  ones.  Not  unfrecjuently  a  perambulator  is 
present,  also  a  nursery  crib.  And  going  at  that  especial 
period  of  the  week,  there  is  a  certain  tiling  inevitably 
associated  with  Going  Awa3\  Tliat  thing  is  the  periodi- 
cal called  the  Saturday  Review.  It  comes  every  Mon- 
day morning ;  and  you  cut  the  leaves  after  breakfast  and 
glance  over  it,  but  you  put  off  the  reading  of  it  till  the 
evening.  But  on  those  travelling  days  this  paper  is 
associated  with  the  forenoon.  Breakfast  is  a  hasty  meal 
that  day.  The  heavy  baggage,  if  you  dwell  in  the 
country,  has  gone  away  early  in  a  cart,  —  the  railway 
station  is  of  course  five  miles  off.  And  then,  just  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  period  you  had  named  to 
your  man-servant,  round  comes  the  phaeton  which  can 
hold  so  much.  It  comes  at  the  very  moment  you  really 
desired  to  have  it,  —  ibr  knowing  that  your  servant  will 
alwaj's  be  exactly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  too  late,  you  al- 
ways order  it  just  a  (piarter  of  an  hour  before  the  time 
you  really  want  it.  Phaeton  of  chocolate  hue,  picked 
out  with  red  and  white ;  horse  of  the  sixteen  hands  and 
an  inch,  jet  black  of  color,  well-bred  in  blood,  and  gen- 
tle of  nature,  where  are  you  both  to-night  ?  Tlirough 
the  purple  moorlands,  through  the  rich  cornfields,  along 
the  shady  lanes,  up  the  Ili.uh-street  of  the  little  town, 
we  have  gone  togelher;  but  the  day  came  at  length 
when  you  had  to  go  one  way  and  I  another;  and  we  have 
each  gone  through  a  good  deal  of  liard  work  doubtless 
since  then.  Pleasant  it  is,  driving  home  from  the  town 
in  the  winter  afternoon,  and  reaching  your  door  when  it 
lias  grown  pretty  dark  ;  pleasant  is  the  ilood  of  mellow 
light  tiiat  issues  forth  when  your  door  is  ojiened  ;  pleas- 
ant is  't  to  "'itness  the  unloadiiio;  of  the  vast  amount  and 


Its  A   REMINISCENCE  OF 

viiripty  of  lliinirs  wl.ich,  in  various  receptacles,  that  far 
from  })on(lerous  equijiage  could  convey ;  pleasant  to 
"witness  the  pile  that  accumulates  on  the  topmost  step 
before  your  door  ;  pleasant  to  behold  the  bundle  of  books 
and  ma'iazines  from  the  reading-club ;  pleasanter  to  see 
the  less  frequent  parcel  of  those  which  you  can  call  your 
own  ;  pleasant  to  see  the  manifold  brown-paper  parcels 
enter  the  house,  which  seems  to  be  such  a  devouring 
monster,  craving  ceaseless  fresh  supply.  All  this  while 
tlie  night  is  falling  fast,  and  the  gnat  trees  look  down, 
ghost-like,  upon  the  little  bustle  underneath  them.  Then 
phaeton  and  horse  depart;  and  in  a  little  you  go  round 
to  the  stable-yard,  and  find  your  fiiithful  steed,  now  dry 
and  warm,  in  his  snug  stall,  eagerly  eating,  yet  bearing 
in  a  kindly  way  a  few  pats  on  the  neck  and  a  few  pulls 
of  the  ears.  And  your  faithful  man-servant  is  quite 
sure  to  have  some  M-onderful  intelligence  to  convey  to 
you,  picked  up  in  town  that  afternoon.  In  the  country, 
you  have  not  merely  the  enjoyment  of  rich  summer 
scenery,  of  warm  sunsets,  and  green  leaves  shining  gold- 
en; there  is  a  peculiar  pleasure  known  to  the  thorough 
country  man  in  the  most  wintry  aspects  of  nature.  The 
bleak  trees  and  sky  outside,  tlie  moan  of  the  rising  wind 
presaging  a  wild  niglit,  and  the  brawl  of  the  swollen 
bro.k  that  runs  Iiard  by,  all  make  one  value  the  warmth 
and  light  and  comfort  within  doors  about  forty  times  as 
much  a-^  you  could  value  these  simjde  blessings  in  a 
great  city,  where  they  seem  quite  natural,  and  matters 
of  course.  Of  course,  a  great  man  would  not  care  for 
these  ihings,  and  would  despise  the  small  human  being 
that  docs  cai'e  for  them.  Let  the  great  man  take  his 
own  way,  and  let  the  small  human  being  be  allowed  to 
follow  his  in  peace. 


THE    OLD    TIME.  149 

This,  however,  is  a  deviation  to  an  evening  on  which 
you  come  home ;  whereas  our  proper  subject  is  a  morn- 
ing on  which  you  go  away  from  home.  The  phaeton 
has  come  to  tlie  door ;  many  little  things  go  in ;  finally 
the  passengers  take  their  seats,  and  the  thick  rugs  are 
tucked  in  over  their  knees ;  then  you  lake  the  reins  (for 
you  drive  yourself),  and  you  wind  away  outward  till 
you  enter  the  highway.  The  roads  are  smooth  and 
firm,  and  for  all  tlie  heavy  load  behind  him,  the  black 
horse  trots  briskly  away.  Have  I  not  beheld  a  human 
being,  his  wife,  two  children,  a  man-servant,  and  a  wo- 
man-servant, steadily  skimming  along  at  a  respectable 
nine  miles  an  hour,  with  but  one  living  creature  for  all 
the  means  of  locomotion  ?  And  the  living  creature  was 
shining  and  })lump,  and  imniistakably  happy.  The  five 
miles  are  overcome,  and  you  enter  the  court-yard  of 
your  little  railway  station.  There  in  a  heap,  cunningly 
placed  on  the  platform  where  the  luggage-van  may  be 
expected  to  rest  when  the  train  stops,  is  your  luggage. 
Tlie  cart  has  been  faithful :  there  are  the  twenty-three 
things.  You  have  driven  the  last  mile  or  two  under  a 
certain  fear  lest  you  might  be  too  late ;  and  that  fear 
will  quicken  an  unsophisticated  country  pulse.  But 
you  have  ten  minutes  to  spare.  There  are  no  people 
but  your  own  party  to  divide  the  attention  of  the  soli- 
tary porter.  At  length,  a  mile  off,  along  the  river  bank, 
you  discern  the  sinuous  train:  in  a  little  the  tremen- 
dously energetic  locomotive  passes  by  you,  and  the  train 
is  at  rest.  You  happily  find  a  compartment  which  is 
cm[)ty,  and  there  you  swiftly  bestow  your  living  charge ; 
and  having  done  this  you  iiasten  to  witness  the  safe 
embarkat'-^n  of  the  twenty-three  trunks  and  packages. 


150  A   REMINISCENCE  OF 

All  this  must  be  done  rapidly,  and  of  course  you  take 
much  more  trouble  than  a  more  experienced  Iraveller 
would.  And  when  at  len!j,'th  you  hurriedly  climb  into 
your  place,  you  sink  down  in  your  seat,  and  feel  a  de- 
licious sense  of  quiet.  The  morning  has  been  one  of 
worry,  after  all.  But  now  you  are  all  risjlit  for  the  next 
four  hours.  And  that  is  a  long  look  forward.  You 
keenly  appreciate  this  blink  of  entire  rest.  Your  unac- 
customed nerves  have  been  stretched  by  that  fear  of 
being  late ;  then  there  was  the  hurry  of  getting  the 
children  into  tlieir  carriage,  and  seeing  after  the  twenty- 
three  things ;  and  now  comes  a  reaction.  For  a  few 
miles  it  is  enough  just  to  sit  still,  and  look  at  the  faces 
beside  you  and  opposite  you,  and  especially  to  watch  the 
wonder  imprinted  on  the  two  round  little  faces  looking 
out  of  the  window.  First,  looking  out  on  either  side 
there  is  a  deep  gorge  ;  great  trees  ;  rocks  on  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  side  a  river.  By  and  by  the  golden  gleam 
of  ripe  cornfields  in  the  sunshine  on  either  hand  light- 
ens up  all  faces.  And  now,  foi'th  from  its  bag  comes 
the  Saturday  Ileview  ;  and  you  read  it  luxuriously,  with 
frequent  pauses  and  lookings  out  between.  Do  the 
keen,  sharp,  brilliant  men  who  write  those  trenchant 
paragraphs  ever  tliink  of  the  calm  enjoyment  they  are 
providing  for  simj)le  minds  ?  Although  you  do  not  care 
in  the  least  about  the  subject  discussed,  there  is  a  keen 
pleasure  in  remarking  the  skill  and  pith  and  felicity 
with  which  the  writer  discusses  it.  You  feel  a  certain 
satisfaction  in  thinking  that  every  Monday  since  that 
periodical  started  on  its  career,  you  have  read  it.  It  is 
a  soi't  of  intellectual  tiling  to  do.  You  reflect  with 
pleasure  on  the  statement  made  on  oath  by  a  witness  in 


THE    OLD    TLME.  151 

a  famous  trial.  He  described  a  certain  person  as  "  a 
sensible  and  intt'lligent  man  who  took  in  the  Times." 
Wliat  proof,  then,  of  scholarly  likings,  and  of  power  to 
appreciate  what  not  everybody  can  appreciate,  should 
be  esteemed  as  furnished  by  the  fact  that  a  man  pays  for 
and  reads  the  Saturday  Review  ? 

Now  here,  my  reader,  we  have  reached  the  very  ar- 
ticle of  Going  Away.  Many  are  the  thoughts  through 
which  we  approached  it :  here  it  is  at  last.  Behold  the 
human  being,  about  the  lirst  day  of  August,  seated  in  a 
corner  of  a  railway  carriage,  whose  cushions  are  luxu- 
rious, and  whose  general  effect  is  of  blue  cloth  within, 
and  varnished  teak  without.  Opposite  the  human  being 
sits  his  wife.  Pervading  the  carriage  you  may  behold 
two  children.  And  carefully  tending  them,  and  seeking 
vainly  to  keep  them  quiet,  you  may  (in  very  many 
cases,  for  such  excellent  persons  are  happily  not  uncom- 
mon) discern  a  certain  nurse,  who  is  as  a  member  of 
that  little  family  circle ;  more  than  a  trusted  and  valued 
servant,  even  a  faithful  friend.  That  is  how  human 
beings  Go  Away.  That  is  the  kind  of  picture  which 
rises  in  the  writer's  mind,  and  in  the  mind  of  very  many 
people  in  a  like  station  in  this  life,  when  looking  back 
over  not  many  years. 

There  is  a  certain  cumbrous  enjoyment  in  all  Going 
Away,  bearing  with  you  all  these  impedimenta ;  even 
when  you  are  going  merely  for  a  Christmas  week  or 
the  like.  But  the  great  Going  Away  is  at  the  begin- 
ning of  your  autumn  holidays.  And  thinking  of  this, 
I  feel  the  prospect  change  from  country  to  town :  I 
think  how  the  human  being,  wearied  out  by  many 
mouths  of  hard    work   amid   city    bustle  and  pressure, 


152  A   REMINISCENCE   OF 

leaves  these  behind  ;  how  tlie  little  children  shut  up 
their  school-books,  and  their  tired  instructors  are  off  for 
their  turn  of  much-needed  recreation  ;  ho'.v  the  clurrches 
are  em[:tied,  and  tlie  streets  deserted ;  liow  the  congre- 
gation, asseml&led  in  one  place  on  the  last  Sunday  of 
July,  is  before  tlie  next  one  scattered  far  and  wide,  like 
the  fragments  of  a  bursting  l)ombsliell.  But  it  is  not 
now,  in  this  mid-term  of  work,  that  one  can  recall  the 
feelings  of  commencing  holiday-time.  Meanwhile,  you 
are  out  of  sympathy  with  it ;  and  every  good  thing  is 
beautiful  in  its  time. 

Was  it  worth  while  thus  to  revive  things  so  long  past? 
It  has  been  pleasant  for  the  writer ;  and  a  hundred 
things  not  recorded  here  have  been  awakened  in  the  re- 
trospect. And  when  these  pages  meet  tlie  right  people's 
eye,  they  may  serve  to  recall  simple  modes  of  being  and 
doing  wliicli  are  melting  fast  away.  For  the  ex|)erience 
of  ordinary  mortals  is  remarkably  unifoim ;  and  most 
of  the  people  you  loiovv  are  in  many  re.'^pects  extremely 
like  yourself.  Now  let  us  cease  aud  sit  down  and  think. 
There  is  indeed  a  temptation  to  go  on.  One  would 
rather  not  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  page ;  1  mean  a  manu- 
script page ;  and  it  is  almost  too  much  for  human  nature 
to  know  that  we  may  add  a  few  sentences  more,  and 
tliey  will  not  be  cut  off.  And  there  are  positions  too 
much  for  human  nature.  A  sense  of  power  and  author- 
ity, as  a  general  nile,  is  more  than  the  average  man 
can  bear.  Not  long  since  I  beheld,  in  the  superhuman 
dignity  of  a  policeman,  something  which  deeply  im- 
pressed this  on  my  mind.  Tlie  kitchen  chimney  of  tliis 
dwelling  caught  fire.     It  is  contrary  to  municipal  law  to 


THE   OLD   TIME,  153 

lei  jour  kitchen  chimney  catch  fire,  and  very  properly 
so  ;  so  there  was  a  fine  to  be  paid.  On  a  certain  day  I 
was  told  there  was  a  i)()liceraan  in  the  kitchen,  who  de- 
sired an  interview.  I  proceeded  tliitlier  and  found  him 
there.  No  language  can  convey  an  idea  of  tlie  stern 
and  unyielding  severity  of  that  eminent  man's  demean- 
or. He  seemed  to  think  I  would  probaVdy  plead  with 
him  to  let  Justice  turn  from  her  rigid  course  ;  and  he 
souglit  by  his  whole  bearing  to  convey  that  any  such 
pleading  would  be  futile  ;  and  that,  whatever  might  be 
said,  the  half-crown  must  be  paid,  to  be  applied  to  public 
purposes.  When  I  entered  liis  presence,  he  sternly 
asked  me  what  was  my  name.  Of  course  he  knew  my 
name  just  as  well  as  I  did  myself;  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  requirement  fitted  to  make  me  feel  my 
humble  position  before  him.  And  having  received  *.he 
information,  he  made  a  note  of  it  in  a  little  book ;  and, 
conveying  that  serious  consequences  would  follow,  he 
departed.  A  similar  manifestation  may  be  found  in  the 
case  of  magistrates  in  small  authority.  I  have  heard 
of  such  an  individual  wlio  dispensed  ju-tice  from  a  seedy 
little  bench,  with  an  awful  state.  He  sat  upon  that 
bench  all  alone  ;  and  no  matter  of  the  smallest  im- 
portance ever  came  before  him.  Yet  when  expressing 
his  ophiion,  he  never  failt'd  to  state  that  the  Court 
thought  so  and  so.  A  vague  impression  of  dignity  thu.'? 
was  made  to  surround  the  workings  of  the  individual 
mind.  It  once  befell,  that  certain  youthful  students,  in  a 
ceitain  university,  had  a  strife  with  the  police ;  and 
being  captured  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  law,  were  con- 
veyed before  such  a  magistrate.  Sitting  upon  the  judg- 
ment seat,  he   !^ternly  upbraided   the   youths  fo?-   theii 


154  REMINISCENC1>:   OF   THE   OLD   TIME. 

didcreditible  behaviour ;  aildin;^,  that  it  gave  him  special 
sorrow  to  witness  such  hiwlcss  violence  in  the  case  of 
individuals  who  were  receiving  a  university  eddication. 
lie  did  not  know,  that  unhap|)y  magistrate,  that  there 
stood  at  his  bar  one  whose  audacious  heart  quailed  not 
in  his  presence.  "  Stop,"  exclaimed  that  unutterably 
irreverent  youth,  interrupting  the  stern  magistrate;  ''let 
me  entreat  you  to  pronounce  the  word  properly ;  it  is 
not  EDDICATION,  it  is  EDUCATiox."  And  the  magistrate's 
dignity  suddenly  collapsed,  like  a  blown-up  bladder  when 
you  insert  a  penknife.  This  incident  is  recorded  to  have 
happened  at  Timbuctoo,  in  the  last  century.  I  have  no 
doubt  the  story  is  not  true.  Hardly  any  stories  are  true. 
Yet  I  have  often  heard  it  related.  And  like  the  legend 
of  The  Ass  and  the  Archbishop,  which  is  utterly  without 
foundation,  you  feel  that  it  ought  to  be  true. 


CHAPTER   IX 


CONCERNING    OLD    ENEMIES. 


T  may  be  assumed  as  certain,  that  most  read- 
ers of  this  page  have  on  some  occasion 
climbed  a  hiiih  hill.  It  may  be  esteemed 
as  probable,  that  when  half-way  up,  they  felt 
out  of  breath  and  tired.  It  is  extremely  likely  that, 
having  come  to  some  inviting  spot,  they  sat  down  and 
rested  for  a  little,  before  passing  on  to  the  summit. 
Now,  my  reader,  if  you  have  done  all  that,  I  feel  assured 
that  you  must  have  remarked  as  a  fact  that,  though 
when  you  sit  down  you  cease  to  make  progress,  you  do 
not  go  back.  You  do  not  lose  the  ground  already 
gained.  But  if  you  ever  think  at  all,  even  tliough  it 
should  be  as  little  as  j)0ssible,  you  must  have  discerned 
the  vexatious  truth  that  in  respect  of  another  and  more 
important  kind  of  progress,  unless  you  keep  going  on, 
you  begin  to  go  back.  You  struggle,  in  a  moral  sense, 
up  the  steep  slope ;  and  you  sit  down  at  the  top,  think- 
ing to  yourself,  "Now  that  is  overcome."  But  after 
resting  for  a  wliile  you  look  round ;  and  lo !  insensibly 
you  have  been  sliding  down,  and  you  are  back  again  at 
the  foot  of  the  eminence  you  climbed  with  so  much  pain 
and  toil. 


156  CONCERNING   OLD   ENLMIES. 

There  arc  certain  enemies  with  which  every  worthy 
human  being  has  to  fiirht,  as  rejrards  which  you  will  feel, 
as  you  go  on,  tliat  this  jiriiiciple  holds  especially  true ; 
tlie  princii)le  tliat  if  you  do  not  keep  going  forward,  you 
will  begin  to  lose  ground  and  go  backward.  It  is  not 
enough  to  knock  the?e  enemies  on  the  head  for  once. 
In  your  inexperienced  days  you  will  do  this ;  and  then, 
seeing  that  they  look  quite  dead,  you  will  fancy  they 
will  never  trouble  you  any  more.  But  you  will  find 
out,  to  your  jiainful  cost,  that  those  enemies  of  yours 
and  mine  must  be  knocked  at  the  head  repeatedly. 
One  knocking,  though  the  severest,  will  not  suffice. 
They  keep  always  reviving,  and  struggling  to  their  feet 
again ;  a  little  weak  at  fii  st  through  the  battering  you 
gave  them,  but  in  a  very  short  time  as  vigorous  and 
mischievous  as  ever.  The  Frenchman,  imperfectly  ac- 
quainted with  the  foi-ce  of  English  words,  and  eager 
that  extremest  vengeance  should  be  wreaked  on  certain 
human  foes,  cried  aloud,  "  Kill  thkm  very  often"! 
And  that,  my  friend,  as  regards  the  worst  enemies  we 
have  got,  is  precisely  what  you  and  I  must  do. 

If  we  are  possessed  of  common  sense  to  even  a 
limited  amount,  we  must  know  quite  well  who  are  our 
worst  enemies.  Not  Miss  Limejuice,  who  tells  lies  to 
make  you  appear  a  conceited,  silly,  and  ignorant  person. 
Nor  Mr.  vSnarling,  who  diligently  strives  to  prevent 
your  reaching  something  you  would  like,  because  (as  he 
says)  the  disappointment  will  do  you  good.  Not  the 
human  curs  that  gnarr  at  your  heels  when  you  attain 
some  conspicuous  success  or  distinction  ;  which  probably 
you  worked  hard  for,  and  waited  long  for.  Not  these. 
"  A  man's  foes, "  by  special  eminence  and  distinction, 


II 


CONCEnNIXG   OLD   ENEMIES.  157 

are  even  nearer  him  than  "  they  of  his  own  lioiise  :  "  a 
man's  worst  enemies  are  they  of  his  own  heart  and  soul. 
The  enemies  that  do  you  most  harm,  and  probably  that 
eau.-e  yon  most  suffering;,  are  tendencies  and  feelings  in 
yourself,  li'  all  within  the  citadel  were  right,  if  the 
troop  of  thoughts  and  affections  ihe)-e  were  orderly  and 
well-di.^posed  and  well-guided,  we  should  be  very  in- 
dependent of  the  enemies  outside.  Outside  temptation 
ca,n  never  make  a  man  do  wrong  till  something  inside 
takes  il  by  the  hand,  and  fraternizes  with  it,  and  sides 
with  it.  Tiie  bad  impulse  within  must  walk  up  arm  in 
arm  with  the  bad  impulse  from  without,  and  introduce 
it  to  the  will,  before  the  bad  impulse  from  without,  how- 
ever powerful  it  may  be,  can  make  man  or  woman  go 
astray  from  riglit.  All  this,  however,  may  be  taken  for 
granted.  AYhat  I  wish  to  impress  on  the  reader  is  this  : 
that  in  iighting  with  tliese  worst  enemies,  it  is  not 
enough  for  once  to  cut  them  down  ;  smash  them,  bi-ay 
them  in  a  mortar.  If  you  were  figliting  with  a  Chinese 
invader,  and  if  you  Avere  to  send  a  rifle-bullet  througli 
his  head,  or  in  any  other  way  to  extinguish  his  life,  you 
would  feel  that  he  was  done  with.  You  would  have  no 
more  trouble  from  t/tat  quarter.  But  once  shoot  or 
slash  the  ugly  beast  which  is  called  Envy,  or  Self- 
Conceit,  or  Unworthy  Ambition,  or  Hasty  Speaking,  or 
general  Foolishness,  and  you  need  not  plume  yourself 
that  you  will  not  be  troubled  any  more  with  him.  Let  us 
call  thebeast  by  tlie  general  name  of  Besetting  Sin  ;  and 
let  us  recognize  the  i'act,  that  though  you  never  wiUiiigly 
give  it  a  moment's  quarter,  thougli  you  smash  in  its 
head  (in  a  moral  sense)  with  a  big  stone,  though  you 
kick  it  (in  a  moral  sense)  till  it  seems  to  be  lying  quite 


158  CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES. 

lifeless,  in  a  little  -while  it  will  be  up  again  as  strong 
as  ever.  And  the  only  way  to  keep  it  down  is  to  knock 
it  on  the  skull  afresh  eveiy  time  it  begins  to  lift  up  its 
ugly  face.  Or,  to  go  back  to  my  first  figure  :  you  have 
climbed,  by  a  hard  effort,  up  to  a  certain  moral  elevation. 
You  have  reached  a  position,  climbing  up  the  great 
ascent  that  leads  towards  God,  at  which  you  feel  re- 
signed to  God's  will,  and  kindly  disposed  to  all  your 
fellow-creatures,  even  to  such  as  have  done  you  a  bad 
turn  already,  and  will  not  fail  to  do  the  like  again. 
You  also  feel  as  if  your  heart  were  not  set,  as  it  once 
used  to  be,  upon  worldly  aims  and  ends  ;  but  as  if  you 
were  really  day  by  day  working  towards  something 
quite  different  and  a  gi-eat  deal  In'gher.  You  feel  hum- 
ble, patient,  charitable.  You  sit  down  there,  on  tliat 
moral  elevation,  satisfied  with  yourself,  and  tliinking  to 
yourself,  Now,  I  am  a  humble,  contented,  kindly, 
Christian  human  being;  and  I  am  so  for  life.  And  let 
it  be  said  tliankfuUy,  if  you  keep  always  on  the  alert, 
alwaj'S  watching  against  any  retrogression,  always  with 
a  stone  ready  to  knock  any  old  enemy  ou  the  head, 
always  looking  and  seeking  for  a  strength  beyond  your 
own,  —  you  may  remain  all  that  for  life.  But  if  you 
grow  lazy  and  careless,  in  a  very  little  while  you  will 
have  glided  a  long  way  down  the  hill  again.  You  will 
be  back  at  your  old  evil  ways.  You  will  be  eager  to 
get  on,  and  as  set  on  this  world  as  if  this  world  were 
all,  you  will  find  yourself  hitting  hard  the  man  who 
has  hit  you,  envying  and  detracting  from  the  man 
who  has  surpassed  you,  and  all  the  other  bad  things. 
Or  if  you  do  not  I'efrograde  so  far  as  that,  if  you  pull 
yourself  up  before  the  old  bad  impulse  within  you  comes 


CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES.  159 

to  actual  bad  deeds,  still  you  will  know  that  the  old 
bad  impulse  within  you  is  stirring,  and  that,  by  God's 
help,  you  must  give  it  another  stab. 

Now  this  is  disheartening.  When,  by  making  a  great 
eiFort,  very  painful  and  very  long,  you  have  put  such  a 
bad  impulse  down,  it  is  very  natural  to  think  that  it  will 
never  vex  you  any  moie.  The  dragon  has  been  tram- 
pled under  the  horse's  feet,  its  head  has  been  cut  off; 
surely  you  are  done  with  it.  You  have  ruled  your  spirit 
into  being  right  and  good ;  into  being  magnanimous, 
kindly,  humble.  And  then  you  fancied  you  might  go 
ahead  to  something  more  advanced ;  you  had  got  over 
the  Puns  Asinorum  in  the  earnest  moral  work  of  life. 
You  have  extirpated  the  wolves  from  your  England,  and 
now  you  may  go  on  to  destroy  the  moles.  The  wolves 
are  all  lying  dead,  each  stabbed  to  the  heart.  You 
honestly  believe  that  you  had  got  beyond  them,  and  that 
whatever  new  enemies  may  assail  you,  the  old  ones,  at 
least,  are  done  witli  finally,  lint  the  wolves  get  up 
again.     The  old  enemies  revive. 

I  have  sometimes  wondered  whetlier  those  men  who 
have  done  much  to  help  you  and  me  in  the  putting  down 
of  our  worst  enemies,  have  truly  and  finally  slain  those 
enemies  as  far  as  concerns  themselves.  Is  the  man,  in 
reading  whose  pages  I  feel  I  am  subjected  to  a  healtli- 
ful  influence,  that  puts  down  the  unworthy  parts  of  my 
naiure,  and  that  makes  me  feel  more  kindly,  magnani- 
mous, hopeful,  and  earnest  than  when  left  to  myself,  —  is 
that  man,  I  wonder,  always  as  good  himself  as  for  the 
time  he  makes  me?  Or  can  it  be  true  that  the  man 
who  seems  not  merely  to  have  knocked  on  the  head  the 
lower  impulses  of  his  own  nature,  but  to  have  done  good 


160         CONCF.nXING  OLD  KNKMIES. 

to  you  and  me,  my  friend,  by  helping  to  kill  those  im- 
pul  es  within  us,  has  still  to  be  fighting  away  with 
beasts,  like  St.  Paul  at  Ephesus ;  still  to  be  lamenting, 
on  many  days,  that  the  ugly  (aces  of  susj)icioii,  jealou-y, 
disposition  to  retaliate  when  assailed,  and  the  like,  keep 
wakening  up  and  flying  at  him  again?  I  fear  it  is  so. 
I  doubt  whether  the  human  being  lives  in  whom  evil, 
however  long  anl  patiently  trodden  down,  does  not 
poraetiraes  erect  its  crest,  and  hiss,  and  need  to  be  trod- 
den down  again.  Vain  thoughts  and  fancies,  long  ex- 
tinguished, will  waken  up  ;  unworthy  tendencies  will 
give  a  push  now  and  then.  And  especially  I  believe  it 
is  a  great  delusion  to  fancy  that  a  man  who  writes  in  a 
healthy  and  kindly  strain  is  what  he  counsels.  If  he  be 
an  honest  and  earnest  man  I  believe  that  he  is  striving 
after  that  wliich  he  counsels,  and  that  he  is  aiming  at 
the  spirit  and  temper  which  he  sets  out.  I  think  I  can 
generally  make  out  what  are  a  moral  or  religious  writ- 
er's besetting  sins,  by  remarking  what  are  the  virtues 
he  chiefly  magnifies.  He  is  struggling  alter  those 
virtues,  struggling  to  break  away  from  t!ie  correspond- 
ing errors  and  failings.  If  you  lind  a  man  who  in  all 
lie  writes  is  scrupulonsly  fair  and  tempei-ate,  it  is  proba- 
ble that  he  is  a  very  excitable  and  prejudiced  jierson, 
but  that  lie  knows  it,  and  honestly  strives  against  it. 
An  author  who  always  ex[)resscs  himself  with  remark- 
able calmness  is  probably  by  nature  a  ferocious  and 
savage  man.  But  you  may  see  in  the  way  in  which  he 
restricts  himself  in  tiie  matter  of  adjectives,  and  in 
which  he  excludes  the  supcrla'ive  degiee,  that  he  is 
making  a  determined  effort  to  put  down  his  besetting 
sin.     And  probably  he  fancies,  quite  honestly,  that  he 


CONCERNING   OLD  ENEMES.  161 

has  finally  knocked  that  enemy  on  the  head.  The  truth 
no  doubt  is,  that  it  is  because  the  enemy  is  still  alive, 
and  occasionally  barking  and  biting,  that  it  is  kejit  so 
well  in  cheek.  There  is  just  enough  of  the  old  beast 
surviving  to  compel  attention  to  it :  the  attention  which 
consists  in  keei)ing  a  foot  always  on  its  head,  and  in  oc- 
casionally giving  it  a  vehement  whack.  Tlie  most  emi- 
nent good  qualities  in  human  beings  are  generally  formed 
by  diligent  putting  down  of  the  corresponding  evil  qual- 
ities. It  was  a  stuttiirer  who  became  the  greatest 
ancient  orator.  It  was  a  man  who  still  bore  on  his 
satyr  face  the  indications  of  his  old  satyr  nature  who 
became  the  best  of  heathens.  And  as  with  Socrates 
and  Demosthenes,  it  has  been  with  many  more.  If  a 
man  writes  always  very  judiciously,  rely  upon  it  he  has 
a  strong  tendency  to  ibolishness ;  but  he  is  keeping  it 
tight  in  clieck.  If  a  man  writes  always  very  kindly 
and  cliaritably,  depend  upon  it  he  is  fighting  to  the 
death  a  tendency  to  bitterness  and  uncharitableness. 

A  faithful  and  earnest  preacher,  resolved  to  say  no 
more  than  he  has  known  and  felt,  and  remembering  tlie 
wise  words  of  Dean  Alford,  "  What  thou  hast  not  by 
suffering  bought,  presume  thou  not  lo  teach,"  would 
necessarily  show  to  a  sharp  oijseiver  a  great  deal  of 
himself  and  his  inner  being,  even  though  rigidly  avoid- 
ing the  slightest  suspicion  of  egotism  in  his  preaching ; 
and  it  need  hardly  be  said  that  egotism  is  not  to  be  tol- 
erated in  the  pulpit. 

After  you  have  in  an  essay  or  a  sermon  described  and 
condemned  some  evil  tendt-ncy  that  is  in  human  nature, 
you  are  ready  to  think  that  you  liave  finally  overcome 
it.     And  after  you  have  described  and  comnuudcd  some 

K 


162  COXCERXING   OLD   ENEMIKS. 

good  disposition,  you  are  ready  to  think  that  yoii  have 
attained  it,  and  that  you  will  not  lose  it  again.  And  for 
the  time,  if  you  be  au  honest  man,  you  have  smashed  the 
foe,  you  have  gained  the  vantage  ground.  But,  woe  's 
rae,  the  good  disposition  dies  away,  and  the  foe  gradual- 
ly revives  and  struggles  to  his  legs  again.  Let  us  not 
fancy  that  because  we  have  been  (as  we  fancied)  once 
right,  we  shall  never  go  wrong.  We  must  be  always 
watchful.  The  enemy  that  seemed  most  thoroughly 
beaten  may  (apart  from  Goil's  grace)  beat  us  yet.  The 
publican,  when  he  went  up  to  the  temple  to  pray,  ex- 
pressed liimsi  If  in  a  fashion  handed  down  to  all  ages 
fV'ith  the  imprimatur  upon  it.  Yet,  for  all  his  speaking 
to  fairly,  the  day  might  come  when,  having  grown  a  re- 
formid  character  and  gained  general  ap])rol)ation,  he 
would  stand  in  a  conspicuous  place,  and  thank  God  tliat 
he,  \vas  not  as  other  men.  Let  us  trust  that  day  never 
came.  Yet,  if  the  publican  had  said  to  himself,  as  he 
went  down  to  his  house,  Now  I  have  attained  an  excel- 
lent pitch  of  morality  ;  I  am  all  right ;  I  am  a  model 
for  future  generations,  —  that  day  would  be  very  likely 
to  come. 

It  is  a  humiliating  and  discouraging  sight  to  behold  a 
man  plainly  succumbing  to  au  enemy  which  you  fancied 
he  had  long  got  over.  You  may  have  seen  an  individ- 
ual of  more  tlian  middle  age  making  a  fool  of  liimself 
by  carrying  on  absurd  flirtations  with  young  girls,  who 
were  bnbies  in  long-clotlies  when  he  first  was  spoony. 
You  would  have  said,  looking  at  such  a  man's  outward 
aspect,  and  knowing  something  of  his  history,  that  years 
had  brought  this  comi)ensation  for  what  they  had  taken 
away,  that  he  would  not   make   a   conspicuous   ass   of 


CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES.  163 

himself  any  more.  But  tlie  old  enemy  is  too  much  for 
him ;  and  0  how  long  that  man's  ears  would  appear,  if 
the  inner  ass  could  be  represented  outwardly  !  You 
may  have  seen  such  a  one,  after  passing  through  a  dis- 
cipline which  you  would  have  expected  to  sober  him, 
evincing  a  frantic  exhilaration  in  the  prospect  of  his 
third  marriage.  And  you  may  have  witnessed  a  jier- 
son  evincing  a  higli  degree  of  a  folly  he  had  unspar- 
ingly scourged  in  others.  I  have  beheld,  in  old  folk, 
manifestations  of  absurdity  all  very  well  in  the  veiy 
young,  which  suggested  to  me  the  vision  of  a  stiff, 
spavined,  lame,  broken-down  old  hack,  fit  only  for  the 
knacker,  trying  to  jauntily  scamper  about  in  a  field  with 
a  set  of  spirited,  fresh  young  colts.  And  looking  at  the 
spectacle,  I  have  reflected  on  the  true  statement  of  the 
Venerable  Bede,  that  there  are  no  fools  like  old  fools. 

But  here  it  may  be  said,  that  we  are  not  to  suppose 
that  a  thing  is  wrong,  unless  it  can  bear  to  be  looked 
back  on  in  cold  blood.  IMany  a  word  is  spoken,  and 
many  a  deed  done,  and  fitly  too,  in  the  warmth  of  the 
moment,  which  will  not  bear  the  daylight  of  a  time 
when  the  excitement  is  over.  ]\Ir.  Caudle  was  indignant 
when  his  wife  reminded  him  of  his  sayings  before  mar- 
riage. They  soinidcd  foolisli  now  in  Caudle's  ears.  Tliis 
did  not  sullice  to  show  tliat  those  sayings  were  not  very 
fit  at  the  time  ;  nor  does  it  prove  that  the  tendency  to 
say  many  things  under  strong  feeling  is  an  enemy  to  be 
put  down.  You  have  said,  with  a  trembling  voice,  and 
with  the  tear  in  your  eye,  tilings  which  are  no  discredit  to 
you,  though  you  might  not  be  disposed  to  say  the  like  just 
after  coming  out  of  your  bath  in  the  morning.  You 
needed  to  be  warmed  up  to  a  certain  pitch ;  and  then  the 


164  CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES. 

spark  was  struck  off.  And  only  a  very  malicious  ci'  a 
very  stupid  person  would  remind  you  of  these  things 
wlien  you  are  not  in  a  correspondent  vein. 

And  now  tliat  we  have  had  this  general  talk  about 
these  old  enemies,  let  us  go  on  to  look  at  some  of  tliem 
individually.  It  may  do  us  good  to  poke  up  a  few  of 
the  beasts,  and  to  make  them  arise  and  walk  about  in 
their  full  ugliness,  and  then  to  smite  them  on  the  head 
as  with  a  hammer.  Let  this  be  a  new  slaying  of  the 
slain,  who  never  can  be  slain  too  often. 

Perhaps  you  may  not  agree  with  me  when  I  say  that 
one  of  these  beasts  is  Ambition.  I  mean  unscruj)ulous 
self-seeking.  You  resolved,  long  ago,  to  give  no  harbor 
to  that,  and  so  to  exclude  tlie  manifold  evils  that  came 
of  it.  You  determined  tliat  yon  would  resolutely  refuse 
to  scheme,  or  push,  or  puff,  or  hide  your  honest  opinions, 
or  dodge  in  any  way,  for  the  jiurpose  of  getting  on.  You 
know  how  eager  some  people  are  to  Iv.t  their  light  shine 
before  men,  to  the  end  that  men  may  think  what  clever 
fellows  those  people  are.  You  know  how  anxious  some 
men  are  to  set  themselves  right  in  newspa[iers  and  the 
like,  and  to  stand  fair  (as  they  call  it)  with  the  public. 
You  know  how  some  men,  when  they  do  any  good  work, 
have  recourse  to  means  highly  analogous  to  the  course 
adopted  by  a  class  of  persons  long  ago,  wlio  sounded  a 
tininp(!t  before  theui  in  the  streets  to  call  attention  to 
their  charitable  deeils.  I  know  individuals  who  con- 
stantly sound  their  own  trumpet,  and  that  a  very  brazen 
one,  — sound  it  in  conversation,  in  newspaper  paiagraphs, 
in  advertisements,  in  speeches  at  public  meetings.  But 
you,  an  honest  and  modest  person,  were  early  disgusted 


CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES.  165 

by  that  kind  of  thing,  and  you  determined  that  yon 
would  do  your  duty  quietly  and  faithfully,  spending  all 
your  strengtii  upon  your  work,  and  not  sparing  a  large 
per  centage  of  it  fur  the  trumpet.  You  resolved  that 
you  would  never  admit  the  thought  of  setting  yourself 
more  favorably  before  your  fellow-creatures.  You  learned 
to  look  your  humble  position  in  tlie  flice,  and  to  discard 
the  idea  of  getting  any  mortal  to  think  you  greater  or 
better  than  you  are.  Yes,  }ou  hope  that  the  petty  self- 
seeking,  which  keeps  some  men  ever  on  the  strut  and 
stretch,  has  been  outgrown  by  you  ;  yet  if  you  would  be 
safe  from  one  of  the  most  contemptible  foes  of  all  moral 
manhood,  you  must  keep  your  club  in  your  hand,  and 
every  now  and  then  quiet  the  creature  by  giving  it  a 
heavy  blow  on  the  head.  St.  Paul  tells  us  that  he  had 
"  learned  to  be  content."  It  cost  him  effort.  It  cost  him 
time.  It  was  not  natural.  He  came  down,  we  may  be 
sure,  with  many  a  heavy  stroke  on  the  innate  disposition 
to  repine  when  things  did  not  go  in  the  way  he  wanted 
them.     And  that  is  what  we  must  do. 

As  you  look  back  now,  it  is  likely  enough  that  you 
recall  a  time  when  self-seeking  seemed  thoroughly  dead 
ui  you.  You  were  not  very  old,  perliaps,  yet  you  fancied 
ihat  (by  God's  help)  you  had  outgrown  ambition.  You 
did  your  work  as  well  as  you  could,  and  in  the  evening 
you  sat  in  your  easy-ciiair  by  the  fireside,  looking  not 
without  interest  at  the  feverish  race  of  worldly  compe- 
tition, yet  free  from  the  least  thought  of  running  in  it. 
As  for  thinking  of  your  own  eminence,  or  imagining  that 
any  one  would  take  the  trouble  of  talking  about  you, 
that  never  entered  your  mind.  And  as  you  beliehl  the 
PHger  pushing  of  other  men,  and  tluir  fi'antic  endeavors 


166         CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

to  keep  tlicmsolves  before  the  Iniraan  race,  yon  wondered 
what  worhlly  iiKhicenieiit  wouhl  lead  you  to  do  the  like. 
But  did  you  always  kci'i)  in  that  happy  condition  ?  Did 
you  not,  now  and  tlien,  feel  some  little  waking  up  of  the 
old  tiling,  and  become  aware  that  you  were  being  drawn 
into  the  current?  If  so,  let  us  hope  that  you  resolutely 
came  out  of  it,  and  that  you  found  quiet  in  the  peaceful 
backwater,  apart  fi-om  that  horrible  feverish  stream. 

Tiiere  is  another  old  enemy,  a  two-headed  monster, 
that  is  not  done  with  when  it  has  been  killed  once.  It 
is  a  near  relative  of  the  last :  it  is  the  ugly  creature 
Self-Conceit  and  Envy.  I  call  it  a  two-headed  monster, 
rather  than  two  monsters  ;  it  is  a  double  manifestation 
of  one  evil  prin('i])le.  Self-cunceit  is  the  principle  as  it 
looks  at  yourself;  Envy  is  the  same  thing  as  it  looks  at 
other  men.  I  fear  it  must  be  admitted  that  there  is  in 
human  nature  a  disposition  to  talk  bitterly  of  people 
who  are  more  eminent  and  successful  than  yourself,  and 
though  you  expel  it  with  a  jiitdifoik,  that  old  enemy 
will  come  back  agjiin.  This  disposition  exists  in  many 
walks  of  life.  A  Lord  Chancellor  has  left  on  record 
his  ojiinion,  that  nowhere  is  there  so  much  envy  and 
jealousy  as  among  the  members  of  the  English  bar. 
A  great  actor  has  declared  that  nowhere  is  there  so 
much  as  among  actors  and  actresses.  Several  authors 
have  maintained  that  no  human  beings  are  so  bitter  at 
seeing  one  of  themselves  get  on  a  little,  as  literary  folk. 
And  a  popular  i)rcacher  has  been  heard  to  say  that 
envy  and  detraction  go  their  greatest  length  among 
preachers.  Let  us  hope  tliut  the  last  statement  is  er- 
roneous.    But   I    fear    that   these    testimonies,   coming 


CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES.  167 

from  quarters  so  various,  lead  to  the  conclusion  that 
envy  and  detraction  (which  imply  self-conceit)  are  too 
i>atural  and  common  everywhere.  You  may  have 
heard  a  numhcr  of  men  talking  about  one  man  in  their 
own  vocation  who  had  got  a  good  deal  ahead  of  them, 
and  who  never  had  done  thein  any  harm,  except  thus 
getting  aliead  of  tliem  ;  and  you  may  have  been  amazed 
at  the  awful  animosity  evinced  towards  the  successful 
man.  But  success  in  others  is  a  thing  which  some 
mortals  cannot  forgive.  You  may  have  known  people 
savagely  abuse  a  man  because  he  set  up  a  carriage,  or 
because  he  moved  to  a  finer  house,  or  because  he  bought 
an  estate  in  the  country.  You  remember  the  outburst 
which  followed  when  Macaulay  dated  a  letter  from 
Windsor  Castle.  Of  course,  tlie  true  cause  of  the  out- 
burst was  that  Macaulay  sliould  have  been  at  Windsor 
Castle  at  all.  Let  us  be  thankful,  my  friend,  that  such 
an  eminent  distinction  is  not  likely  to  happen  either  to 
you  or  me  ;  we  liave  each  acquaintances  who  would 
never  forgive  us  if  it  did.  What  a  raking  up  of  all 
the  sore  points  in  your  iiistory  would  follow,  if  the  Queen 
wore  to  ask  you  to  dinner !  And  if  you  should  ever 
succeed  to  a  fortune,  what  unspeakable  bitterness  would 
be  awakened  in  the  hearts  of  INIr.  Snarling  and  Miss 
Limejuice  !  li"  tlieir  malignant  glances  could  lame  your 
horses  as  you  drive  by  tliem  witli  tliat  fine  new  pair,  tiie 
horses  would  limp  home  with  great  dilhculty ;  and  if 
their  eyes  could  set  your  grand  iiouse  on  fire,  imme- 
diately on  the  new  furniture  going  in,  a  heavy  loss  would 
fall  cither  upon  you  or  the  insurance  company. 

But  this  will  not  do.     As  you  read  these  lines,  my 
friend,  you  picture  yourself  as  the  person  who  attains 


168  CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES. 

the  eminence  and  succeeds  to  the  fortune  ;  and  you 
picture  Miss  Limejuice  and  Mr.  Snarling  as  two  of  your 
neighbors.  But  wliat  I  desire  is,  that  you  should  change 
the  case ;  imagine  your  iriend  Smith  preferred  before 
you,  and  consider  whether  there  would  not  be  some- 
thing of  the  Snarling  tendency  in  yourself.  Of  course, 
you  would  not  suffer  it  to  manifest  itself;  but  it  is  there, 
and  needs  to  be  put  down.  And  it  needs  to  be  put  down 
more  than  once.  You  will  now  and  thfn  be  vexed  and 
mortified  to  find  tliat,  after  fancying  you  had  quite  made 
up  your  mind  to  certain  facts,  you  are  far  from  really 
having  done  so.  Well,  you  must  just  try  again.  You 
must  look  for  help  where  it  is  always  to  be  found.  And 
in  the  long  run  you  will  succeed.  It  will  be  painful, 
after  you  fancied  you  had  weeded  out  self-conceit  and 
envy  from  your  nature,  to  find  yourself  some  day  talking 
in  a  bitter  and  ill-set  way  about  some  man  or  some  woman 
whose  real  offence  is  merely  iiaving  been  more  pros- 
perous than  yourself.  You  thought  you  had  got  beyond 
that.  But  it  is  all  for  your  good  to  be  reminded  that 
the  old  root  of  bitterness  is  there  yet ;  that  you  are 
never  done  witli  it ;  that  you  must  be  always  cutting  it 
down.  A  gardener  might  as  justly  suppose  tliat  because 
he  has  mown  down  the  grass  of  a  lawn  very  closely  to- 
da^■,  the  grass  will  never  grow  up  and  need  mowing 
again,  as  we  fancy  that  because  we  have  unsparingly  put 
down  an  evil  tendency  within  us,  we  shall  have  no  more 
trouble  with  it. 

Did  nature  give  you,  my  friend,  or  education  develope 
in  you,  a  power  of  saying  or  writing  severe  things, 
which  might  stick  into  people  as  the  little  darts  stick 
into  the  bull  at  a  Spanish  bull-fight?     I  believe  that 


CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES.  169 

there  are  few  persons  who  might  not,  if  their  heart 
would  let  them,  acquire  the  faculty  of  producing  dis- 
agreeable things,  expressed  with  more  or  less  of  neatness 
and  felicity.  And  in  the  case  of  the  rare  man  here  and 
there,  who  says  his  ill-set  saying  with  epigrammatic 
point,  like  the  touch  of  a  rapier,  the  ill-setness  may  be 
excused,  because  the  thing  is  so  gracefully  said.  We 
would  not  wish  that  tigers  should  be  exterminated  ;  but 
it  is  to  be  desired  that  they  should  be  very  few.  Let 
there  be  spared  a  specimen,  here  and  there,  of  the  grace- 
ful, agile,  ferocious  savage.  But  you,  my  reader,  were 
no  great  hand  at  epigrams,  though  you  were  ready 
enough  with  your  ill-set  remark  ;  and  after  some  ex- 
perience, you  concluded  that  tliere  is  something  better  in 
this  world  than  to  say  things,  however  cleverly,  that  are 
intended  to  give  pain.  And  so  you  determined  to  cut 
that  off,  and  to  go  upon  the  kindly  tack  ;  to  say  a  good 
and  cheering  word  whenever  you  had  the  opportunity ; 
to  be  ready  with  a  charitaljle  interpretation  of  what  peo- 
ple do ;  and  never  to  utter  or  to  write  a  word  that  could 
vex  a  fellow-creatui-e,  who  (you  may  be  sure)  has  quite 
enough  to  vex  him  without  your  adding  anything. 
Perhaps  you  did  all  this,  rather  overdoing  the  thing. 
Ill-set  j)eople  are  apt  to  overdo  the  thing  when  they  go 
in  for  kindliness  and  geniality.  But  some  day,  having 
met  some  little  offence,  the  electricity  tliat  had  been 
storing  up  during  that  season  of  repression,  burst  out  in 
a  flash  of  what  may.  i)y  a  strong  figure,  be  called  forked 
lightning ;  the  old  enemy  had  got  the  mastery  again. 
And  indeed  a  hasty  temper,  founding  as  it  does  mainly 
on  irritability  of  the  nervous  system,  is  never  quite  got 
over.  It  may  be  much  aggravated  by  yielding  to  it, 
8 


170  CONCERNING   OLD  ENEMIES. 

and  much  abated  by  constant  restraint ;  but  unless  the 
beast  be  perpetually  seen  to,  it  is  sure  to  be  burstin;; 
out  now  and  then.  Socrates,  you  remember,  said  that 
Ills  temper  was  iia:urally  hasty  and  bad,  but  that  plii- 
losophy  had  cured  him.  I  believe  it  needs  somethinLr 
much  more  elhcacious  than  any  human  philosopliy  to 
work  such  a  cure.  No  doubt,  you  may  diligently  train 
your.-elf  to  see  what  is  to  be  said  in  excuse  of  the 
ofTences  given  yon  by  your  fellow-creatures,  and  to 
look  at  tiie  case  as  it  ap])ears  from  tlieir  point  of  view. 
This  will  help.  But  though  ill-temper,  left  to  its  natural 
growth,  will  grow  always  worse,  there  is  a  point  at 
which  it  has  been  found  to  mend.  When  the  nervous 
system  grows  less  sensitive  through  age,  hastiness  of 
temper  sometimes  goes.  The  old  enemy  is  weakeneil  ; 
the  beast  has  been  (so  to  speak)  hamstrung.  You  will 
be  told  that  the  tiling  which  maiidy  impressed  persons 
who  saw  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington  in  the  la.-t 
months  of  his  life,  was  what  a  mild,  gentle  old  man  he 
was.  Of  course,  every  one  knows  that  he  was  not 
always  so.  The  days  were,  when  his  temper  was  hot 
and  hasty  enough. 

And  thus  tliinking  of  physical  infhience,let  us  remem- 
ber that  what  is  vulgarly  called  nervousness  is  an  ene- 
my which  many  men  know  to  their  cost  is  not  to  be  got 
over.  The  firmest  assurance  that  you  have  done  a 
thing  many  times,  and  so  sliould  be  able  to  do  it  once 
more,  may  not  suffice  to  enable  you  to  look  forward  to 
doing  it  without  a  vague  tremor  and  apprehension. 
There  are  human  beings,  all  whose  work  is  done  with- 
out any  very  great  nervous  strain ;  there  are  otheis  in 
whose  vocation  there  come  many  times  that  put  their 


CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES.  171 

whole  nature  upon  the  stretch.  And  these  times  test  a 
man.  You  know  a  horse  may  be  quite  lame,  while  yet 
it  does  not  appear  in  walking.  Trot  the  creature 
smartly,  and  the  lameness  becomes  manifest.  In  like 
manner  a  man  may  be  nervous,  particular,  crotchety, 
superstitious,  while  yet  tliis  may  not  appear  till  yon  trot 
him  sharply.  Put  him  at  some  work  that  must  be  done 
with  the  full  stretch  of  his  powers,  and  then  you  will 
see  that  he  has  got  little  odd  ways  of  his  own.  I  do 
not  know  what  is  the  sensation  of  going  into  battle, 
and  finding  oneself  under  fire  ;  but  sliort  of  that,  I  think 
the  greatest  strain  to  which  a  human  being  is  usually 
subjected  is  that  of  the  preacher.  A  little  wiiile  ago, 
I  was  talking  with  a  distinguished  clergyman,  and  being 
desirous  of  comparing  his  experience  with  that  of  his 
juniors,  I  asked  him,  — 

1.  Whether,  in  walking  to  church  on  Sunday  to 
preach,  he  did  not  always  walk  on  the  same  side  of  the 
street?  Whether  he  would  not  feel  uncomfortable,  and 
as  if  something  were  going  wrong,  if  he  made  any 
change  ? 

2.  Whether  when  waiting  in  the  vestry,  the  minute 
or  two  before  the  beadle  siiould  come  to  precede  him 
into  church,  he  did  not  always  stand  on  the  same  spot? 
Whether  it  would  not  put  him  out  of  gear,  to  vary  from 
that? 

My  eminent  friend  answered  all  these  questions,  in 
the  alhrmativc.  Of  course  there  are  a  great  many  men 
to  whom  I  should  no  more  have  thought  of  proposing 
such  questions  than  I  should  think  of  proposing  them  to 
a  rhinoceros.  Such  men,  probably,  have  no  little  ways; 
and  if  they  had,  they  would  not  admit  that  they  had. 


172  COXCERNIXG   OLD   ENEMIES. 

But  my  friend  is  so  very  able  a  man,  and  so  very  sin- 
cere a  man,  that  he  had  no  reason  to  be  afraid  of  any 
one  thinking  him  little,  though  he  acknowledged  to  hav- 
ing his  little  fancies.  And  indeed,  when  you  come  to 
know  people  well,  you  will  iiud  that  they  have  all  ways 
that  are  quite  analogous  to  Johnson's  touching  the  tops 
of  all  the  posts  as  he  walked  London  streets.  They 
would  not  exactly  say,  that  they  are  afraid  of  anything 
happening  to  them  if  they  deviated  from  the  old  track, 
but  they  think  it  just  as  well  to  keep  on  the  safe  side, 
by  not  deviating  from  it. 

Possibly  there  was  a  period  in  your  life  in  which  you 
had  no  objection  to  get  into  controversies  upon  political 
or  religious  subjects  with  other  men ;  which  controver- 
sies giadually  grew  angry,  and  probably  ended  in  mu- 
tual abuse,  but  assuredly  not  in  conviction.  But  having 
remarked,  in  the  case  of  other  controversialists,  what 
fools  they  invariably  made  of  themselves ;  having  re- 
marked tlieir  ludicrous  exaggeration  of"  the  importance 
of  tlieir  dispute,  and  the  malice  and  disingeuuousness 
with  which  they  carried  on  their  debate  (more  espe- 
cially if  they  were  clergymen)  ;  having  remarked,  in 
brief,  how  very  little  a  controversialist  ever  looks  like  a 
(Jhris^tian,  —  you  turned,  in  loathing,  Irom  the  whole 
thing,  and  resolved  that  you  wcmld  never  get  into  a  con- 
troversy, public  or  private,  with  any  mortal  upon  any 
subject  any  more.  Stick  to  tliat  resolution,  my  friend  ; 
it  is  a  good  one.  But  you  will  occasionally  be  tempted  to 
break  it.  Whenever  the  old  enemy  assails  you,  just  think 
wiiat  a  demagogue  or  agitator,  jiolitical  or  religious, 
looks  like  in  the  eyes  of  all  f^ensible  and  honest  men ! 

Perhaps  you  had  a  tendency   to  be  suspicious,  and 


CONCERNING   OLD   ENEMIES.  173 

you  have  broken  yourself  of  it.  Perhaps  your  tempta- 
tion was  to  be  easily  worried  by  little  cross-accidents, 
and  to  get  needlessly  excited.  Perhaps  your  temptation 
was  to  laziness,  to  putting  off  duty  till  to-morrow,  to 
untidiness,  to  moral  cowardice.  Whatever  it  was,  my 
friend,  never  think  yourself  so  cured  of  an  evil  habit, 
tliat  you  may  cease  to  mow  it  down.  If  Demosthenes 
had  left  off  attending  to  his  speaking,  he  would  have 
relapsed  into  his  old  evil  ways.  If  St.  Paul,  after 
having  learned  to  be  content,  had  ceased  to  see  to  that, 
he  would  gradually  have  grown  a  grumbler. 

I  am  going  to  close  this  little  procession  of  old 
enemies  which  has  passed  before  our  eyes  by  naming 
a  large  and  general  one.  It  is  Folly.  My  friend,  if 
you  have  attained  to  any  measure  of  common  sense 
now,  you  know  what  a  ti'emendous  fool  you  were  once. 
If  you  do  not  know  that,  then  you  are  a  fool  still.  Ah, 
reader,  wise  and  good,  you  know  all  the  weakness,  the 
silliness,  the  absurd  fancies  and  di-eams,  that  have  been 
yours.  I  presume  that  you  are  ready  to  give  up  a  great 
part  of  your  earlier  life:  you  have  not  a  word  to  say 
for  it.  All  your  desire  is  that  it  sliould  in  charity  be 
forgotten.  But  surely  you  will  not  now  make  a  fool 
of  yourself  any  more.  There  shall  be  no  more  now  of 
the  hasty  talking,  the  vaporing  about  your  own  impor- 
tance, the  idiotic  sayings  and  doings  you  wish  you  could 
bury  in  Lethe  ;  and  wliich  you  may  be  very  sure  cei-tain 
of  your  kind  friends  carefully  remember  and  occasionally 
recall.  But  now  and  then  the  logic  of  facts  will  con- 
vince you  that  the  old  enemy  is  not  quite  annihilated 
yet,  and  you  say  something  you  regret  the  moment  it  is 
uttered;  you  do  something  which  indicates  that  you 
have  lost  your  head  for  the  time. 


174  CONCERNING  OLD   ENEMIES. 

Let  it  be  said,  in  conclusion,  as  the  upshot  of  the 
whole  matter,  that  the  wise  man  will  never  think  he  is 
safe  till  he  has  n^ached  a  certain  place  where  no  enemy 
can  assail  him  more.  I  beg  my  friend  Mr.  Snarlin;^  to 
take  notice,  that  I  do  not  pretend  to  have  pointed  out 
in  these  pages  the  worst  of  those  old  enemies  that  get 
up  again  and  run  at  us  after  they  had  been  knocked  on 
the  head  once,  and  more  than  once. 

If  this  had  been  a  sermon,  I  should  have  given  you  a 
very  different  catalogue,  and  one  that  would  have 
awakened  more  serious  thoughts.  Not  but  tliat  those 
which  have  been  named  are  well  worth  thinking  of. 
The  day  will  never  come,  in  this  world,  on  which  it  will 
be  safe  for  us  to  sit  down  in  perfect  secui'ity,  and  to  say 
to  ourselves,  now  we  need  keep  no  watch  ;  we  may  (in 
a  moral  sense)  draw  the  charge  from  our  revolver  be- 
cause it  will  not  be  needed  ;  we  may  fall  asleep,  and 
nothing  will  meddle  with  us  the  while.  For  all  around 
us,  my  friend,  are  the  old  enemies  of  our  souls  and  our 
salvation  ;  some  aiming  at  nothing  more  than  to  make 
us  disagreeable  and  repulsive,  petty  and  jealous ;  others 
aiming  at  nothing  less  than  to  make  us  unfit  for  the  only 
home  where  we  can  know  j^erfcct  rest  and  peace  ;  some 
stealing  upon  us  more  stealthily,  silently,  iiitally,  than 
ever  the  Indian  crept  tlu-ough  the  darkness  of  niglit 
upon  the  traveller  nodding  over  his  wateb-Rre ;  some 
coming  down  upon  us,  sti'ong  and  sudacn  as  the  tiger's 
agile  spring.  Well,  we  know  what  to  do :  we  must 
watch  and  pray.  And  the  time  will  come  at  length 
when  the  pack  of  wolves  shall  be  lashed  off  for  ever; 
when  the  evil  within  us  shall  be  killed  outright,  and 
beyond  all  reviving ;  and  when  the  evil  around  us  shall 
be  gone. 


CHAPTER    X. 

AT   THE   CASTLE:   WITH   SOME   THOUGHTS   ON 
MICHAEL   SCOTT'S   FAMILIAR   SPIRIT. 


OT  on  a  study-table  in  a  back  parlor  in  a 
great  city  shall  these  little  blue  pages  be 
covered  with  written  characters.  Every 
word  shall  be  written  in  the  open  air.  The 
page  shall  be  lighted  by  sunshine  that  comes  through 
no  glass,  but  which  is  tempered  by  coming  through 
masses  of  green  leaves.  And  tliis  essay  is  not  to  be 
composed ;  not  to  be  screwed  out,  to  use  the  figure  of 
Mr.  Thackeray  ;  not  to  be  pumped  out,  to  use  the  figure 
of  Festus.  It  shall  grow  witliout  an  effort.  When  any 
thought  occurs,  the  pencil  shall  note  it  down.  Ko 
thought  shall  be  hurried  in  its  coming. 

You  know  how  after  a  good  many  months  of  constant 
work,  with  the  neck  always  at  the  coUar,  you  grow 
wearied  and  easily  worried.  Little  things  become 
bui'densome ;  and  the  best  of  work  is  felt  as  a  task. 
You  cannot  reason  yourself  out  of  that ;  ten  days'  I'est 
is  the  thing  tliat  will  do  it.  Be  thankful  if  then  you 
can  have  such  a  season  of  quiet  in  as  green  and  shady 
a  nook  of  country  as  mortal  eyes  could  wish  to  see ;  in 
a  nook  like  this,  amid  green  grass  and  green  trees,  and 


176  AT   THE  CASTLE  : 

the  wild  flowers  of  the  early  summer.     For  this  is  little 
more  than  midway  in  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 

It  is  a  very  warm,  sunshiny  morning.  This  is  a  little 
open  glade  of  rich  grass,  lighted  up  with  daisies  and 
buttercups.  The  little  glade  is  surrounded  by  large 
forest-ti'ees  ;  under  the  trees  there  is  a  blaze  of  prim- 
roses and  wild  hyacinths.  A  soft  west  wind,  laden 
with  the  fragrance  of  lilac  and  aj>ple  blossoms,  wakes 
the  gentlest  of  sounds  (in  a  more  expressive  language 
than  ours  it  would  have  been  called  susiirrus)  in  the 
topmost  branches,  gently  swaying  to  and  fio.  Tlie 
swaying  branches  cast  a  flecked  and  dancing  shadow  on 
the  grass  below.  Midway  the  little  glade  is  beyond  the 
shadow  ;  and  there  the  grass,  in  the  sunbeams,  has  a 
tinge  of  gold.  A  river  runs  by,  wilh  a  ceaseless  mur- 
mur over  the  warm  stones.  Look  to  tlie  right  hand, 
and  there,  over  the  trees,  two  hu mired  yards  off,  you 
may  see  a  gray  and  red  tower  motionless  above  the 
waving  branches  ;  and  lower  down,  hardl}'  suimouiiting 
the  wood,  a  stretch  of  massive  wall,  with  huge  but- 
tresses. Tower  and  wall  crown  a  lofty  knoll,  wliicii 
the  river  encircles,  making  it  a  peninsula.  Wallflower 
grows  in  the  crannies ;  a  little  wild  ap|)le-tree,  covered 
with  white  blossoms,  crowns  a  detached  fragment  of  a 
ruined  gateway ;  sweetbrier  grows  at  the  base  of  tlie 
ancient  walls;  ivy  and  honeysuckle  climb  up  them;  and 
where  great  fragments  of  fallen  wall  testify  to  the  excel- 
lence of  the  mortar  of  the  eleventh  century,  wild  roses 
have  rooted  themselves  in  masses,  which  are  now  only 
green.  That  is  Tiik  Castlk,  all  that  can  be  seen  of  it 
from  this  point.  There  is  more  to  be  said  of  it  here- 
after. Hard  by  this  si)Ot,  two  little  children  are  sitting 
on  the  grass,  to  whom  some  one  is  reading  a  story. 


MICHAEL   SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  177 

The  wise  man  will  never  weary  of  looking  at  green 
grass  and  green  trees.  It  is  an  unspeakable  refresh- 
ment to  the  eye  and  the  mind ;  and  the  daily  pressure 
of  occupation  cannot  touch  one  here.  One  wonders  that 
human  beings  Avho  always  live  amid  such  scenery  do 
not  look  more  like  it.  But  some  people  are  utterly 
unimpressionable  by  the  infiuences  of  outward  scenery. 
You  may  know  men  who  have  lived  for  many  years 
where  Nature  has  done  her  best  with  Avood  and  rock 
and  river ;  and  even  when  you  become  well  acquainted 
with  them,  you  cannot  discover  the  faintest  trace  in 
their  talk  or  in  their  feeling  of  the  mightily  powerful 
touch  (as  it  would  be  to  many)  which  lias  been  unceas- 
ingly laid  upon  them  through  all  that  time.  Or  you 
may  liave  beheld  a  vacuous  person  at  a  picnic  party, 
who,  amid  traces  of  God's  handiwork  that  should  make 
men  hold  their  breath,  does  but  pass  from  the  occupation 
of  fatuously  fiiriing  witli  a  young  woman  like  himself,  to 
furiously  abusing  the  servants  for  not  suiliclently  cooling 
the  wine. 

A  great  many  of  the  highly  respectable  people,  we 
all  know,  are  entirely  in  the  case  of  the  hero  of  that 
exquisite  poem  of  Wordsworth's,  wliich  Jeffrey  never 
could  bring  himself  to  like  :  — 

"  But  Nature  ne'er  coulil  find  lier  way 
Into  the  heart  of  I'eter  Bell. 

"  In  vain,  through  every  chaiiging  year, 

Dill  Nature  lead  him  as  before  ; 
A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 

And  it  was  nothing  more." 

A  human  being  ought  to  be  very  thankful  if  his  dis- 
8*  r. 


178  AT   THE   CASTLE : 

position  be  such  that  he  heartily  enjoys  green  grass  and 
green  trees ;  lor  tl)ere  aie  clever  men  who  do  not.  In 
a  little  while  I  shall  tell  you  of  an  extraordinary  and 
anomalous  taste  expressed  on  that  subject  by  one  of  the 
cleverest  men  I  know.  If  a  man  has  a  thousand  a 
year,  and  his  next  neighbor  five  hundred,  and  if  the 
man  with  five  hundred  makes  his  income  go  just  as  far 
as  the  larger  one  (and  an  approximation  to  doing  so 
may  be  made  by  good  m:inagement),  it  is  plain  that 
these  two  mortals  are,  in  respect  to  income,  on  the  same 
precise  footing.  The  poorer  man  gets  so  much  more 
enjoyment  out  of  his  yeai'ly  revenue  as  makes  up  for 
the  fact  that  the  richer  man's  revenue  is  twice  as  great. 
There  is  a  like  compensation  provided  for  the  lack  of 
material  advantages  in  the  case  of  many  men,  through 
their  intense  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  natural 
scenery,  and  of  very  simple  things.  A  rich  man  may 
possess  the  acres,  with  their  yearly  rental;  a  poor 
man,  such  as  a  poet,  a  professor,  a  schoolmaster,  a  cler- 
gyman, or  the  like,  may  possess  the  landscape  which 
these  acres  make  up,  to  the  utter  exclusion  of  the  landed 
proprietor.  Perhaps,  friendly  reader,  God  has  not  given 
you  the  earthly  possessions  which  it  has  pleased  liim 
to  give  to  some  whom  you  know,  but  lie  may  have 
given  you  abimdant  recompense  by  giving  you  the  power 
of  getting  more  enjoyment  out  of  little  things  tiian  many 
other  men.  You  live  in  a  little  cottage,  and  your  neigh- 
bor in  a  grand  castle ;  you  have  a  smsill  collection  of 
books,  and  your  neighbor  a  great  one  of  fine  editions  in 
sumptuous  bindings  and  in  carved  oak  cases ;  yet  you 
may  have  so  great  delight  in  your  snug  house,  and  your 
familiar  volumes,  that  in  regard  of  actual  enjoyment  you 


MICHAEL   SCOTT'S   FAMILIAR    SPIRIT.  179 

may  be  the  more  enviable  man.  A  green  field  with  a 
large  oak  in  the  middle,  a  hedge  of  blossoming  haw- 
thorn, a  thatched  cottage  under  a  great  maple,  twenty 
square  yards  of  velvety  turf,  —  how  really  happy  such 
things  can  make  some  simple  folk ! 

Of  course  it  occurs  to  one  that  the  same  people  who 
get  more  enjoyment  out  of  little  pleasures  will  get  more 
suffering  out  of  anything  painful.  Because  your  tongue 
is  more  sensitive  than  the  palm  of  your  hand,  it  is  aware 
of  the  flavor  of  a  pineapple  which  your  palm  would 
ignore,  but  it  is  also  liable  to  know  the  taste  of  assa- 
foetida,  of  which  your  palm  would  be  unconscious.  Tiie 
supersensitive  nervous  system  is  finely  strung  to  discern 
pain  as  well  as  pleasure.  No  one  knows,  but  the  over- 
particular person,  what  a  pure  misery  it  is  to  go  into  an 
untidy  room,  if  it  be  your  own.  There  are  people  who 
suffer  as  much  in  having  a  tooth  filed  as  others  in  losing 
a  limb.  A  Frenchman,  some  years  since,  committed 
suicide,  leaving  a  written  paper  to  say  he  had  done  so 
because  life  was  rendered  unendurable  tln-ougli  his  being 
so  much  bitten  by  fleas.  This  is  not  a  thing  to  smile  at. 
That  poor  man,  before  his  reason  was  upset,  had  proba- 
bly endured  torments  of  which  those  around  had  not 
the  faintest  idea.  I  have  heard  a  good  man  praised  for 
the  patience  vvitn  which  he  bore  daily  for  weeks  the 
surgeon's  dressing  of  a  very  severe  wound.  The  good 
man  was  thought  heroic.  I  knew  him  well  enougli  to 
be  sure  that  the  fact  was  that  his  nature  was  dull  and 
slow.  He  did  not  suffer  as  average  men  would  have 
suffered  under  that  infliction.  Theie  are  human  beings 
in  touching  whose  moral  nature  you  feel  you  are  touch- 
ing the  impenetrable  skin  of  the  hippopotamus.     There 


180  AT   THE   CASTLE: 

are  linrn;in  l)C'iiigs  in  touching  whose  moral  nature  you 
feel  you  are  touching  the  bare  tip  of  a  nerve.  Eager, 
anxious  men  are  prone  to  envy  imperturbable  and  slow- 
moving  men.  My  friend  Smith,  who  is  of  an  eager 
nature,  tells  me  he  looks  with  a  feeling  a  few  degrees 
short  of  veneration  on  a  massive-minded  and  immovable 
being,  who  in  telling  a  story  makes  such  long  pauses  at 
the  end  of  each  sentence  that  you  fancy  the  story  done. 
Then  poor  Smith  breaks  in  hastily  with  something  he 
wants  to  say,  but  the  massive-minded  man,  not  noticing 
him,  continues  his  parable  till  he  pauses  again  at  the 
end  of  another  sentence.  And  Smith  is  made  to  feel  as 
though  he  were  very  young. 

I  have  said  that  likings  vary  in  regard  to  such  mat- 
ters as  the  enjoyment  of  this  scene.  O  this  green  grass, 
rich,  unutterably  green,  with  the  buttercups  and  daisies, 
with  the  yellow  broom  and  the  wild  bees,  and  the  en- 
vironment of  bright  leafy  trees  that  inclose  you  round  ; 
to  think  that  there  are  people  who  do  not  care  for  you  ! 
It  was  but  yesterday,  in  a  street  of  a  famous  and  beauti- 
ful city,  I  met  my  friend  INIr.  Keene.  Keene  is  a  warm- 
hearted, magnanimous,  imselfish,  brave,  out-spoken  hu- 
man being,  as  fine  a  fellow  as  is  numbered  among  the 
clergy  of  either  side  of  the  Tweed.  Besides  these  things, 
he  is  an  admirable  debater ;  fluent,  ready,  eloquent, 
hearty,  fully  j^ersuaded  that  he  is  right,  and  that  his 
opponents  are  invariably  wrong,  and  not  witiiout  some 
measure  of  smartness  and  sharpness  in  expression. 
Keene  approached  me  with  a  radiant  face,  the  result 
partly  of  inherent  good  nature,  and  pai'tly  of  a  very  hot 
summer  day.     He  had  come  to  the  city  to  take  part  in 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR   SPIRIT.  181 

the  debates  of  the  great  ecclesiastical  council  of  a  north- 
ern country.  I  was  coming  to  this  place.  He  was 
entering  the  city,  in  fact,  for  many  days  of  deliberation 
and  debate  ;  I  was  departing  from  it  for  certain  days  of 
rest  and  recreation.  I  could  not  refrain  from  displaying 
some  measure  of  exultation  at  the  contrast  between  our 
respective  circumstances.  "  I  shall  be  lying  to-morrow," 
I  said,  "  on  green  grass  under  green  trees,  while  you 
will  be  existing  "  (the  word  used  indeed  was  stewing) 
"  in  that  crowded  building,  with  its  feverish  atmosphere 
higidy  charged  with  carbonic-acid  gas."  To  these  words 
Keene  replied,  with  simple  earnestness  :  "  I  shall  be  quite 
liappy  there  ;  I  don't  care  a  straw  for  green  grass  and 
gi'een  leaves  ! "  Such  was  the  sentiment  of  that  eminent 
man.     I  pity  him  sincerely  ! 

Here  I  paused,  and  thought  for  a  little  of  the  great 
ecclesiastical  council  and  of  lesser  ecclesiastical  coun- 
cils, and  the  following  reflection  suggested  itself:  — 

Our  good  principles  are  too  often  like  Don  Quixote's 
helmet.  We  arrive  at  them  in  leisure,  in  cool  blood, 
with  an  unexcited  brain,  which  is  commonly  called  a 
clear  head ;  then  in  actual  life  they  too  commonly  fail  at 
the  first  real  trial.  Don  Quixote  made  up  his  helmet 
carefully  with  a  visor  of  pasteboard.  Then,  to  ascertain 
Avhether  it  was  strong  enougli,  he  dealt  it  a  blow  with 
his  sword ;  thereupon  it  went  to  pieces. 

In  liiie  manner,  in  our  better  and  more  thouglitl'ul 
liours,  we  resolve  to  be  jtatient,  forgiving,  charitable, 
kind-spoken,  unsuspicious,  —  in  short  Christian,  for  //kiI 
includes  all,  —  and  the  first  time  we  are  irritated  we  fail. 
We  gi-ow  very  angry  at  some  small  offence ;  we  speak 


182  AT   THE   CASTLE : 

harshly,  we  act  unfaiily.  I  have  heard  a  really  good 
man  preath.  Afterwards  I  heard  him  speak  in  a  lesser 
ecclesiastical  council.  lie  preached  (so  far  as  the  senti- 
ments expressed  went)  like  an  angel.  He  argued  like 
just  the  reverse. 

All,  we  make  u])  our  helmets  witli  pasteboard.  We 
resolve  that  henceforth  we  shall  act  on  the  most  noble 
principles.  And  the  helmets  look  very  well  so  long  as 
they  are  not  put  to  tlie  test.  We  fancy  ourselves  chari- 
table, forgiving,  Christian  people,  so  long  as  we  are  not 
tried.  A  stroke  with  a  sword,  and  tiie  helmet  goes  to 
tatters.  An  attack  on  us,  a  reflection  on  us,  a  hint  that 
we  ever  did  wrong,  and  oh,  the  wretched  outburst  of 
wrath,  bitterness,  unfairness,  malignity ! 

Of  course,  the  best  of  men,  as  it  has  been  said,  are 
but  men  at  the  best.  Let  us  be  humble.  Let  there  be 
no  vain  self-confidence  ;  and  especially  let  us,  entering 
on  every  scene  that  can  [)ossibly  try  us,  (and  when  do 
we  escape  from  such  a  scene  ?)  earnestly  ask  the  guid- 
ance of  that  Blessed  Spirit  of  Whom  is  every  good  feel- 
ing and  purpose  in  us,  and  without  Whom  our  best 
resolutions  will  snap  like  reeds  just  when  tiiey  are 
needed  most  to  stand  firm. 

There  is  more  to  be  said  about  the  Castle.  It  is  not  a 
castle  to  which  you  go  that  you  may  enjoy  the  society 
of  dukes  and  other  nobles,  such  as  form  the  daily  asso- 
ciates of  the  working  clergy.  By  the 'payment  of  a 
moderate  weekly  stij)end,  this  castle  may  become  yours. 
The  castle  is  in  ruins  ;  but  a  little  corner  amid  the 
great  masses  of  crumbling  stones,  which  were  placed 
here  by  strong  hands  dead  for  eight  hundred  years,  has 


MICHAEL   SCOTT'S   FAMILIAR   SPIRIT.  183 

been  patched  up  so  as  to  make  an  unpretending  little 
dwelling  ;  and  there  you  may  find  the  wainscotted 
rooms,  the  quaint  panelled  ceilings  of  mingled  timber 
and  plaster,  the  winding  turret  stairs,  the  many  secret 
doors,  of  past  centuries.  The  castle  stands  on  a  lofty 
promontory  of  no  great  extent,  wliich  a  little  river  en- 
circles on  two  sides,  and  which  a  deep  ravine  cuts  off 
from  the  surrounding  country  on  the  other  two  sides. 
You  approach  the  castle  o\er  an  arch  of  seventy  feet  in 
height,  which  spans  the  ravine.  In  former  days  it  was 
a  drawbridge.  The  bridge  runs  out  of  the  inner  court 
of  the  castle  ;  midway  in  its  length  it  turns  off  at  almost 
a  riglit  angle,  till  it  joins  the  bank  on  the  other  side  of 
the  ravine.  That  little  bridge  makes  a  charming  place 
to  walk  on,  and  it  is  a  great  deal  longer  than  any  quar- 
ter-deck. It  is  all  grown  over  with  masses  of  ancient 
ivy,  the  fragrance  of  a  sweetbrier  hedge  in  the  castle 
court  pervades  it  at  present ;  you  look  down  from  it  upon 
a  deep  glen,  through  which  the  little  river  flows.  The 
tops  of  the  tall  trees  arc  flir  beneath  you  ;  there  are 
various  plane-trees  with  their  thick  leaves.  Wherever 
you  look,  it  is  one  mass  of  rich  foliage.  Trees  fill  up 
tlie  ravine,  trees  clothe  the  steep  bank  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  trees  have  rooted  themselves  in  wonderful 
spots  in  the  old  walls,  trees  clothe  the  ascent  that  leads 
from  the  castle  to  that  little  summit  near,  crowned  with 
one  of  the  loveliest  creations  of  the  Gothic  architect's 
skill.  TJiat  is  the  chancel  of  a  large  church,  of  which 
only  the  chancel  was  ever  built ;  and  if  you  would  beliold 
a  little  chapel  of  inexpressible  perfection  and  beauty,  if 
you  would  discern  the  traces  of  the  luithful  and  loving 
toil  of  men  who  have  been  for  hundreds  of  years  in 


184  AT  THE   CASTLE : 

their  graves,  if  you  would  look  upon  ancient  stones  that 
seem  as  if  they  had  grown  and  blossomed  like  a  tree, 
then  find  out  where  that  chapel  is,  and  go  and  see  it. 

But  you  pass  over  the  bridge ;  and  under  a  ruined 
gateway,  where  part  of  a  broken  arch  hangs  over  the 
passer-by,  you  enter  the  court.  On  the  right  hand, 
ruined  walls  of  vast  thickness.  Tlie  like  on  the  left 
hand,  but  midway  there  is  the  little  portion  that  is  hal)i- 
ttible.  Enter:  pass  into  a  pretty  large  wainscotted  par- 
lor ;  look  out  of  the  windows  on  the  further  side.  You 
are  a  hundred  feet  above  the  garden  below,  —  for  on  that 
side  there  is  below  you  story  after  story  of  low-browed 
chambers,  arched  in  massive  stone,  and  lower  still,  the 
castle  wall  rises  from  the  top  of  a  precipice  of  perpen- 
dicular rock.  On  the  fnrther  side  from  the  river,  the 
chambers  are  hewn  out  of  tlie  living  stone.  What  a 
view  from  tlie  window  of  that  parlor  first  mentioned ! 
Beneath,  the  garden,  bright  now  with  blossoming  apple- 
trees,  bounded  by  the  river,  and,  beyond  the  river,  a 
bank  of  wood  three  hundred  feet  in  height.  A  little 
window  in  a  corner  looks  down  the  course  of  the  stream ; 
there  is  a  deep  dell  of  wood,  one  thick  luxuriance  of  fo- 
liage, with  here  and  there  the  gleam  of  the  flowing  water. 

This  is  our  place  of  rest.  Add  to  all  that  has  been 
said  an  inexpressible  sense  of  a  pervading  quiet. 

Do  you  find,  when  you  come  to  a  place  where  you  are 
to  have  a  brief  huli(hiy,  a  tendency  to  look  back  on  the 
work  you  have  been  doing,  and  to  estimate  what  it  has 
come  to  alter  all  ?  And  liave  you  found,  even  after 
many  months  of  grinding  as  hard  as  you  could,  that  it 
was  mortifying  to  see  how  little  was  the  permanent  re- 


MICHAEL   SCOTT'S   FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  185 

suit  ?  Such  seems  to  be  the  effect  of  looking  back  on 
work.  One  thinks  of  a  case  parallel  to  the  present  feel- 
ing. There  was  Jacob,  looking  back  on  a  long  life,  on 
a  hundred  and  twenty  years,  and  saying,  sincerely,  that 
his  days  had  been  i'ew  and  evil.  Now,  in  a  blink  of 
rest,  my  friend,  look  back  on  the  results  you  have  ac- 
complished in  those  months  of  hard  work.  You  thought 
them  many  and  good  at  the  time,  now  they  seem  to  be 
no  better  than  few  and  evil.  It  is  humiliating  to  think 
how  little  permanent  result  is  got  by  a  working  day. 
To  bring  things  to  book,  to  actually  count  and  weigh 
them,  always  makes  them  look  less.  You  may  remem- 
ber a  calculation  made  by  the  elder  Disraeli,  as  to  the 
amount  of  matter  a  man  could  read  in  a  lifetime.  It  is 
very  much  less  than  you  would  have  thought,  —  perhaps 
one  tenth  of  what  an  ordinary  person  would  guess. 
Thackeray,  in  liis  days  of  matured  and  practised  power, 
thought  it  a  good  day's  work  to  write  six  of  the  little 
pages  of  Esmond.  A  distinguished  and  experienced 
author  told  me  that  he  esteemed  three  pages  of  the 
Quarterhj  Review  a  good  da3''s  work.  Some  men  judge 
a  sermon,  which  can  be  given  in  little  more  than  half 
an  hour,  a  sufficient  result  of  the  almost  constant  thouglit 
of  a  week.  Six  little  pages,  as  the  sole  abiding  result 
of  a  day  on  which  the  sun  rose  and  set,  and  tlie  clock 
went  tlie  round  of  the  four-and-twenty  hours,  —  on 
which  you  took  your  bath,  and  your  breakfast,  and  read 
your  newspaper,  and  in  short  went  through  the  round 
of  employments  which  make  your  habitude  of  being. 
Six  pages,  —  skimmed  by  tlie  reader  in  five  minuUs ! 
The  truth  is,  that  a  great  part  of  our  energy  goes  just 
to  bear  the  burden  of  the  day,  to  do  the  work  of  the 


186  AT  THE   CASTLE  : 

time,  and  we  liave  only  the  little  surplus  of  abiding 
possession.  The  w;iy  to  keep  ourselves  from  getting 
mortified  and  disheartened  wlieu  we  look  back  on  the 
remaining  result  of  all  our  work,  is  to  remember  that  we 
are  not  hei-e  merely  to  work,  —  merely  to  produce  that 
rvhich  shall  bu  an  abiding  memorial  of  us.  It  is  well  if 
n'kl  we  do  and  bear  is  forming  our  nature  and  character 
into  something  which  we  can  willingly  take  with  us 
ifhen  wo  go  away  from  this  life. 

'xWts  ,m>.'nmg  after  breakfast  I  was  sitting  on  the  par- 
apet yf  ^ht.  bri(l;j:e  already  mcmtioned,  looking  down  upon 
the  toi)&  Oi"  tivo  plune-trees.  and  feeling  a  great  deal  the 
ietter-  for  the  sig».t.  1  believe  it  does  good  to  an  ordi- 
nary mortal  to  iook  aown  on  the  top  of  a  large  tree,  and 
iee  tiie  branches  geiitl;y  wnving  about.  Little  outward 
phenomena  have  a  wonderful  efleet  in  soothing  and  i-e- 
. Freshing  the  mind.  Some  ineii  say  the  sight  and  sound  of 
the  sea  calms  and  cheers  them.  You  know  how  when 
a  certain  old  prophet  was  beaten  nnd  despairing,  the 
All-wise  thought  it  would  be  good  for  him  to  beiiold 
certain  sublime  manifestations  of  tiie  power  of  ttie  Al- 
mighty. We  cannot  explain  the  I'ationale  of  the  pi'o- 
cess,  but  these  things  do  us  good.  A  wise  and  gooJ 
and  most  laborious  man  told  me  that  whea  he  feels  over- 
worked and  desponding,  he  Hies  away  to  Chamouni  and 
looks  at  Mont  lilanc,  and  in  a  few  days  he  is  set  right. 
It  was  not  a  fanciful  man  wlio  said  that  there  is  scenery 
in  this  world  tliat  would  soothe  even  remorse.  And  foi 
an  ordinary  person,  not  a  great  genius  and  not  a  great 
ruffian,  give  us  a  lol'ty  bridge  wlience  you  may  looK 
down  upon  a  great  plane-tree. 


MICHAEL   SCOTT'S   FAMILIAR    SPIRIT.  187 

All  this,  however,  is  a  deviation.  Sitting  on  the 
bridge  and  enjoying  the  scene,  this  thought  arose : 
Greatly  as  one  enjoys  and  delights  in  this,  what  would 
the  feeling  be  if  one  were  authoritatively  commanded  to 
remain  in  this  beautiful  place,  doing  nothing,  for  a 
month  ?  And  one  could  not  but  confess  that  the  feel- 
ing would  not  be  pleasant.  The  things  you  enjoy  most 
intensely  yon  enjoy  for  but  a  short  time,  then  you  are 
satiated.  AYhen  parclied  with  thirst,  what  so  deliglit;'ul 
as  the  first  draught  of  fair  water  ?  But  if  you  were 
compelled  to  drink  a  fourth  and  fifth  tuniblei-,  the  water 
would  become  positively  nauseous.  So  is  it  with  rest. 
You  enjoy  it  keenly  for  a  little  while,  but  constrained 
idleness,  being  prolonged,  would  make  you  miserable. 
Ten  days  here  are  delightful ;  then  bai-k,  witli  fresh  ap- 
petite and  vigor,  to  tlie  dear  work.  But  a  month  here, 
thus  early  in  the  year,  would  be  a  fearful  infliction. 
You  have  not  earned  the  autumn  holidays  as  yet. 

It  is  in  human  nature,  that  when  you  feel  the  pres- 
sure of  anything  painfully,  you  fancy  that  the  opposite 
thing  wouhl  set  you  right.  When  you  are  extremely 
busy  and  distracted  by  a  host  of  things  demanding 
thought,  you  think  that  pure  idleness  would  be  pleasant. 
So,  in  boyhood,  on  a  burning  summer  day,  you  thought 
it  would  be  delicious  to  feel  cold.  You  went  to  bathe 
in  the  sea,  and  you  found  it  a  great  deal  too  cold. 

Charles  Lamb,  for  a  great  part  of  his  life,  was  kept 
very  busy  at  uncongenial  work.  Oftentimes,  through 
those  irksome  hours,  he  thought  how  jileasant  it  would 
be  to  be  set  free  from  that  work  forever.  So  he  said 
that  if  he  had  a  son,  the  son  should  be  cjJled  Notuing 
TO   DO,  and  he   should    do    nothing.     Of  course,  Elia 


188  AT   THE   CASTLK : 

Bpoke  only  hal{-scriou.-;ly.  We  know  what  he  meant. 
But,  in  sober  earnest,  we  can  all  see  that  Nothing  to 
DO  would  have  been  a  miserable  as  well  as  a  wicked 
man.  He  would  assuredly  have  grown  a  bad  fellow ; 
and  he  would  just  as  surely  have  been  a  wretched 
being. 

Every  one  knows  the  story  of  Michael  Scott  and  his 
Familiar  Spirit.  Of  late  I  have  begun  to  understand 
the  meaning  of  that  story. 

Michael  Scott,  it  is  recorded,  had  a  Familiar  Spirit 
under  his  charge.  We  do  not  know  how  JNIichael  Scott 
first  got  possession  of  that  Spirit.  Probably  he  raised 
it,  and  then  could  not  get  rid  of  it :  like  the  man  who 
begged  Dr.  Log  to  propose  a  toast,  and  tiien  Dr.  Log 
spoke  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  Michael  Scott 
had  to  provide  employment  for  that  being,  on  pain  of 
being  torn  in  pieces.  Michael  gave  the  Spirit  very 
ditiicult  things  to  do.  They  were  done  with  terrible 
ease  and  rapidity.  The  three  peaks  of  the  P>ildon  Hills 
were  formed  in  a  single  night.  A  weir  was  built  across 
the  Tweed  in  a  like  time.  Michael  Scott  was  in  a  ter- 
rible state.  In  these  days,  I.;e  wouUl  probably  have 
desired  the  Spirit  to  make  and  lay  the  Atlantic  Tele- 
graph Cable.  But  a  happy  thought  struck  him.  He 
bade  his  Familiar  make  a  rope  of  sea-sand.  Of  coursf, 
this  provided  unlimited  occupation.  The  thing  could 
never  be  finished.     And  the  wizard  was  all  right. 

These  things  are  an  allegory.  Michael  Scott's  Fa- 
miliar Spirit  is  your  own  mind,  my  friend.  Your  own 
mind  demands  that  you  find  it  occupation  ;  and  if  you 
do  not,   it  will   make  you   miserable.     It  is  an  awl'ul 


MICHAEL   SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  189 

thing  to  have  notliing  to  do.  The  mill  within  you  de- 
mands grist  to  grind ;  and  if  you  give  it  none,  it  still 
grinds  on,  as  Luther  said  ;  but  it  is  itself  it  grinds  and 
wears  away.  My  friend  Smith,  having  overworked  his 
e}es  at  college,  was  once  forbid  to  read  or  write  for 
eighteen  months.  It  was  a  horrible  penance  at  first. 
r>iit  he  devised  ways  of  giving  the  machine  work ;  and 
during  that  period  of  enforced  idleness,  he  acquired  the 
power  of  connected  thinking  without  writing  down  each 
successive  thought.  Few  people  have  that  power.  One  of 
the  rarest  of  all  acquirements  is  the  faculty  of  profitable 
meditation.  Most  human  beings,  when  they  fancy  they 
are  meditating,  are  in  fact  doing  nothing  at  all,  and 
thinking  of  nothing. 

You  will  remember  what  was  once  said  by  a  lively 
French  writer,  —  that  we  commonly  think  of  idlene.-s  as 
one  of  the  beatitudes  of  heaven ;  while  we  ought  rather 
to  think  of  it  as  one  of  the  miseries  of  hell.  It  was  an 
extreme  way  whicli  that  writer  took  of  te^ti^ying  to  the 
tormenting  power  of  Michael  Scott's  Familiar  Spirit. 

And  one  evil  in  this  matter  is,  that  it  is  just  the  men 
who  lead  the  most  active  and  useful  lives,  who  are 
making  Michael  Scott's  Spirit  more  insatiable.  You  give 
it  abundance  to  do  ;  and  so  wlien  work  is  cut  off"  from 
it,  it  liccomes  rampageous.  You  lose  the  power  of  sitting 
still  and  doing  nothing.  You  find  it  inexpres^ibly  irk- 
some to  travel  by  railway  ibr  even  half  an  hour,  with 
nothing  to  read.  For  the  most  hanily  way  of  pacifying 
tlie  Spirit  is  to  give  it  soaietiring  to  read.  People  tell 
you  how  disgusting  it  was  when  they  had  to  wjiit  lor  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  for  the  train  at  some  little  country 
railway  «tation.     Michael  Scott's   Spirit   was   worrying 


190  AT   THE   CASTLE  : 

and  tormenting  them,  being  kept  Avitliont  employment 
for  that  time.  You  know  to  wliat  shifts  people  will 
have  recourse,  rutliei-  than  have  the  Familiar  Spirit 
coming  and  tormeiiLing  them.  To  give  grist  to  the  mill, 
to  pi'ovide  the  Familiar  Spirit  with  something  to  do,  on 
a  railway  journey  of  twelve  hours,  they  will  read  all 
the  advertisements  in  tiieir  newspaper  :  they  will  go 
back  a  second  and  a  third  time  over  all  the  news  ;  they 
will  even  diligently  peruse  the  leading  article  of  the 
Little  Pedliiiyton  Gazette.  Tiiey  read  the  advertisements 
in  Bradsliaw.  They  try  to  make  out,  from  that  publica- 
tion, how  to  reach,  by  many  corresponding  trains,  some 
little  cross-country  place  to  wliicli  they  never  intend 
to  go.  Anything  rather  than  be  idle.  Anything  rathei 
than  lean  back,  quite  devoid  of  occupation,  and  feel 
the  Familiar  Spirit  worrying  away  within,  as  Prome- 
theus felt  the  vulture  at  his  liver.  When  I  hear  a  young 
fellow  say  of  some  country  place  where  he  has  been 
sjtending  some  time,  that  it  is  a  horribly  slow  place,  that 
it  is  the  deadest  j^lace  on  earth,  I  am  aware  that  he  did 
not  find  occupation  there  for  Michael  Scott's  FamUiar 
Spirit. 

One  looks  with  interest  at  people  iu  whose  case  that 
S[)irit  seems  to  have  been  lulled  into  torpidity,  lias  been 
brought  to  what  a  practical  philosopher  called  a  dor 
mouse  state.  I  read  last  night  in  a  book  how  somebody 
"  leant  his  check  on  his  hand  and  gazed  absti-actedly  into 
the  fiie."  One  who  has  trained  the  Familiar  Spirit  to 
an  insatiable  appetite  for  work  can  hardly  believe  such 
a  thing  pos-ible.  You  may  remember  a  picture  in  a 
vohnne  of  the  illustrated  edition  of  the  Waverhy  Novels, 
which  represents  a  plump  old  abbot,  sitting  satisfied  in  a 


01  Alt  nuniTiHi.  wui'u  .., 

.-'S  Angeles  Cal. 
MICHAEL  SCOTT'S   FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  191 

large  chair,  with  the  h'ght  of  the  fire  on  his  face,  doing 
nothing,  tliinkiug  of  nothing,  and  quite  ti-anquil  and 
content.  One  sometimes  thinl^s,  Would  we  could  do 
the  like  !  That  fat,  stupid  old  abbot  had  led  so  idle  a 
life  tliat  the  muscular  power  of  the  Familiar  Spirit  was 
abated,  and  its  craving  for  work  gone. 

When  you  are  wearied  with  long  work,  my  reader, 
I  wish  you  may  have  a  place  like  this  to  which  to  come 
and  rest.  How  good  and  pleasant  it  is  for  a  little 
while !  Your  cares  and  burdens  fall  off  from  you. 
How  insignificant  many  things  look  to  one,  sitting  on  tliis 
green  grass,  or  looking  oa  er  this  bridge  down  into  the 
green  dell,  that  worried  one  in  the  midst  of  duty !  If 
you  were  out  iu  a  hurricane  at  sea,  and  your  boat  got 
at  last  into  a  little  sheltered  cove,  you  would  be  glad 
and  thankful.  But  only  for  a  short  time.  In  a  little, 
you  would  be  weary  of  staying  there.  We  are  so  made 
that  we  cannot  lor  any  length  of  time  remain  quiescent 
and  do  nothing.  And  we  cannot  live  on  the  past.  The 
Familiar  Spirit  will  not  chew  tiie  cud,  so  to  speak;  you 
must  give  him  fresh  provender  to  grind.  Perhaps  there 
have  been  days  in  your  life  which  were  so  busy  with 
hard  work,  so  alive  with  what  to  you  were  great  inter- 
ests, so  happy  with  a  bewildering  bliss,  that  you  fan- 
cied you  would  be  able  to  look  back  on  them  and  to 
live  in  them  all  your  life,  and  they  would  be  a  posses- 
sion for  ever.  Not  so.  It  is  the  present  on  which  we 
must  live.  You  can  no  more  satisfy  Michael  Scott's 
Spirit  with  the  remembrance  of  former  occupations  and 
enjoyments  than  you  can  allay  your  present  hunger  witli 
the  remembrance  of  beef-steaks  brought  you  by  the 
plump  bead-waiter  at  "  The  Cock,"  half  a  dozen  years 


192  AT   THE   CASTLE  : 

ago.     Each  day  must  bring  its  work,  or  the  Spirit  will 
be  at  you  and  stick  pins  into  you. 

A  power  of  falling  asleep  enables  one  to  evade  the 
Spirit.  At  night,  going  to  bed,  looking  for  a  sleepless 
night,  how  many  a  man  has  said,  Oh  for  forgetfulness ! 
When  you  have  escaped  into  that  realm,  the  Spirit  can 
trouble  you  no  more.  You  know  the  wish  which  Hood 
puts  on  the  lii)s  of  Eugene  Aram,  tortured  by  an  unen- 
durable recollection,  that  he  could  shut  his  mind  and 
clasp  it  with  a  clasp,  as  he  could  close  his  book  and 
clasp  it.  Few  men  are  more  to  be  envied  than  those 
who  have  this  power.  Napoleon  liad  it.  So  had  the 
Duke  of  "Wellington.  At  any  moment  either  of  these 
men  could  escape  into  a  region  where  they  were  entirely 
free  from  the  pressure  of  those  anxieties  which  weighed 
them  down  while  awake.  Once  the  Duke,  with  his 
aide-de-camp,  came  galloping  up  to  a  j^oint  of  the  Brit- 
ish lines  whence  an  attack  was  to  be  made.  He  was 
told  the  guns  would  not  be  ready  to  open  for  two  hours. 
"  Then,"  said  he,  "  we  had  better  have  a  sleep."  He  sat 
down  in  a  trench,  leant  his  back  against  its  side,  and 
was  fast  asleep  in  a  minute.  That  great  man  could  at 
any  time  escape  from  Michael  Scott's  Spirit;  could  get 
into  a  country  where  the  Spirit  could  not  follow  him. 
For  in  dreamless  sleep  you  escape  from  yourself 

I  have  been  told  that  there  is  another  means  of  lulling 
that  insatiable  being  into  a  state  in  which  it  ceases  to 
be  trouble-ome  and  importunate.  It  is  tobacco.  Some 
men  say  that  the  smoking  of  that  fragrant  weed  soothes 
them  into  a  perfect  calm,  in  which  thoy  are  pleasurably 
conscious  of  existing,  but  have  no  wish  to  do  anything. 
Let  me  conf(»ss,  notwithstanding,  that  I  esteem  smoking 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR   SPIRIT.  193 

as  one  of  the  most  offensive  and  selfish  of  the  lesser 
sins.  When  I  see  smoke  pouring  out  of  the  window 
of  a  railway  carriage  not  S])ecially  allotted  to  smokers, 
I  go  no  farther  for  evidence  that  that  carriage  is  occu- 
pied by  selfish  snobs. 

Young  children  have  Michael  Scott's  Familiar  Spirit 
to  find  employment  for,  just  as  much  as  their  seniors. 
Who  does  not  yet  remember  the  horrible  feeUng  which 
you  expressed  when  a  child  by  saying  you  had  nothing 
to  do  ?  I  have  just  heard  a  little  thing  say  to  his  moth- 
er, "  Read  me  a  story  to  make  the  time  pass  quick." 
That  was  his  way  of  saying,  "  to  pacify  the  Familiar 
.  Spirit."  And  we  talk  of  killuiff  Time,  as  though  he 
were  an  enemy  to  be  reduced  to  helplessness.  There  is 
an  offensive  phrase  which  sets  all  the  idea  more  dis- 
tinctly. There  are  silly  fellows  who  ask  you  what 
o'clock  it  is  by  saying,  "■How  goes  the  etiemi/?"  This 
phra>e  indeed  suggests  thoughts  too  solemn  and  awful 
for  this  page.  Let  me  ask,  in  a  word,  if  Time  be  such, 
how  about  Eternity?  But  in  every  such  case  as  those 
named,  the  enemy  is  not  Time.  It  is  Michael  Scott's 
Familiar  Spirit  demanding  occupation.  How  fast  Time 
goes,  when  the  Spirit  is  pleasantly  or  laboriously  era- 
ployed  !  When  people  talk  of  killing  Time,  they  mean 
knocking  that  strange  being  on  the  head,  so  to  speak ; 
stunning  it  for  the  hour.  That  may  be  done,  but  it  is 
soon  up  again,  importunate  aa  ever. 

I  suppose,  my  reader,  that  you  can  remember  times 
in  which  the  face  you  loved  best  looked  its  sweetest; 
and  tones,  pleasanter  than  all  tlie  rest,  of  the  voice  that 
was  always  pleasantest  to  hear ;  thoughtful  looks  of  tho 

9  M 


194  AT   THE    CASTLE. 

little  child  you  seek  in  vain  in  the  man  in  whom  you 
lost  it;  and  smiles  of  the  little  child  that  died.  Touched 
as  with  the  light  of  eternity,  these  things  stand  forth 
amid  the  years  of  past  time ;  they  are  as  the  mountain 
tops  rising  over  the  mists  of  oblivion ;  they  are  the  pos- 
sessions which  will  never  pass  your  remembrance  till 
you  cease  to  remember  at  all.  And  you  know  that 
Nature  too  has  her  moments  of  special  transfiguration ; 
limes  when  she  looks  so  fiur  and  sweet  that  you  are 
compelled  to  think  tliat  sJie  would  do  well  enough  (for 
all  the  thorns  and  thistles  of  the  Fall),  if  you  could  but 
get  quit  of  the  ever-intruding  blight  of  sin  and  sorrow. 
Sudi  a  season  is  this  bright  morning,  with  its  sunshine 
that  seems  to  us  (in  our  ignorance)  fair  and  joyous 
enougli  for  that  place  where  there  is  no  night ;  witii  its 
leaves  green  and  living  (would  they  but  last)  as  we  can 
picture  of  tlie  Tree  of  Life;  with  its  cheerful  quiet  that 
is  a  little  foretaste  of  the  perfect  rest  wdiich  shall  last 
forever.  It  is  very  neaidy  time  to  go  back  to  work,  but 
we  shall  cherish  this  remembrance  of  the  place  ;  and  so 
it  will  be  green  and  sunshiny  through  winter  days. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

CONCERNING    THE    RIGHT    TACK:    WITH    SOME 
THOUGHTS    ON    THE    WRONG    TACK. 


OT  many  days  since,  I  was  walking  along  a 
certain  street,  in  a  certain  city ;  and  there  I 
beheld  two  little  boys  of  the  better  sort 
fighting  furiously.  There  are  people,  claim- 
ing to  be  what  is  vulgarly  called  Muscular  Christians, 
who  think  that  a  certain  amount  of  figliting  among  boys 
is  to  be  very  much  encouraged,  as  a  thing  tending  to 
make  the  little  fellows  manly  and  courageous.  For  my- 
self, I  believe  that  God's  law  is  wise  as  well  as  right ; 
and  1  do  not  believe  that  angry  passion  (which  God's 
law  condemns),  or  that  vindictive  efforts  to  do  mischief 
to  a  fellow-creature  (which  God's  law  also  condemns), 
are  things  which  deserve  to  be  in  any  way  encouraged, 
or  are  things  likely  to  develop  in  either  man  or  boy  the 
kind  of  character  wliich  wise  and  good  people  would 
wish  to  see.  Accordingly  I  inter[)osed  in  tlie  fight,  and 
sought  to  make  peace  between  the  little  men  ;  support- 
ing my  endeavors  by  some  general  statement  to  the 
effect  that  good  boys  ought  not  to  be  lighting  in  that 
way.  They  stopped  at  once  :  no  doubt  both  had  liad 
enough  of  that  kind  of  thing.     For  one  had  a   bloody 


19G  CONCERNING   Till:   RIGHT  TACK. 

nose,  and  the  other  had  a  rudimentary  black  eye,  ■which 
next  morning  would  be  manifest.  But  one  of  them 
defended  himself  against  the  charge  of  liaving  done 
anything  wrong,  by  saying,  with  the  energy  of  one  wiio 
was  quite  assured  that  he  had  the  principles  of  eternal 
justice  on  his  side,  "  I  have  a  right  to  hit  him,  because 
he  hit  me  iirst !  " 

Of  course,  these  were  suggestive  words.  And  I 
could  not  but  think  to  myself,  walking  away  from  the 
little  fellows  after  having  composed  their  strife,  Now 
there  is  the  principle  upon  which  this  world  goes  on. 
There  is  not  a  deeper-rooted  tendency  in  human  nature 
than  that  which  is  exhibited  in  that  saying  of  that  fine 
little  boy.  For  he  ivas  a  fine  little  boy,  and  so  was  the 
other.  The  great  principle  on  which  rnost  human 
beings  go,  in  all  tiie  relations  and  all  the  doings  of  life, 
is  just  that  whicli  is  compendiously  expressed  in  the 
words,  "  I  have  a  right  to  hit  you,  if  you  hit  me  first." 
You  may  trace  the  manifestations  of  that  great  ])rinciple 
in  all  possible  walks  of  life,  and  among  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men.  One  man  or  woman  says  something 
unkind  of  another :  tlie  other  feels  quite  entitled  to 
retaliate  by  saying  something  unkind  of  the  first.  And 
this  tendency  aj)pears  early.  I  once  heard  a  little  boy 
of  four  yeais  old  say,  with  some  indignation  of  manner: 
"  Miss  Smith  t-aid  I  was  a  troublesome  monkey :  if  she 
ever  says  that  again,  I'll  say  that  she  is  an  ugly  old 
maid  !  "  One  man  says,  in  print,  something  depreciatory 
of  another;  finds  fault  with  sometlung  the  other  man 
has  said,  or  written,  or  done.  Then  the  other  man  re- 
torts in  kind :  pays  oft"  the  first  man  by  publishing 
something  dejueciatory  of  him.     A  great  many  of  the 


CONCERNING   THE   RIGHT   TACK.  197 

political  essays  which  we  read  in  the  newspapers,  and 
a  great  many  of  the  i-eviews  of  books  we  meet,  are 
manifestly  dictated  and  inspired  by  the  purpose  to  re- 
venge some  personal  offence,  to  clear  off  scores  by 
hitting  the  man  who  has  hit  you.  A  sharp,  clever 
person  reads  the  book  written  by  an  enemy,  with  the 
determination  to  pick  holes  in  it  ;  not  that  the  book  is 
bad,  or  that  he  thinks  it  bad  ;  but  its  author  has  given  hun 
some  offence,  and  tJiat  is  to  be  retaliated.  You  remem- 
ber, of  course,  that  very  clever  and  very  bitter  article 
on  Mr.  Croker's  edition  of  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson, 
which  is  contained  in  Loi-d  Macaulay's  selection  of 
essays  from  the  Edinburgh  Review.  Was  there  any 
mortal  who  supposed  that  when  Macaulay's  own  History 
of  England  appeared,  Mr.  Croker  would  review  it  other- 
wise than  with  a  determination  to  find  faults  in  it  ? 
Was  there  any  mortal  surprised  to  find  that  Mr.  Croker, 
having  been  hit  by  Macau  lay,  endeavored  to  hit  Ma- 
caulay  again  ?  And  if  Macaulay's  History  had  been 
absolutely  immaculate,  had  been  a  thousand  times  better 
than  it  is,  do  you  suppose  that  would  ap[)reciably  have 
affected  the  tone  of  Mr.  Croker's  review  of  it  ?  I  am 
far  from  saying  that  JNIr.  Croker  deliberately  made  up 
his  mind  to  do  injustice  to  Lord  Macaulay.  It  is  likely 
enough  he  thonght  Macaulay  I'ichly  deserved  all  the 
ill  he  said  of  him.  A  great  law  of  mind  governs  even 
human  beings  who  never  came  to  a  formal  resolution  of 
obeying  it ;  as  a  stream  never  pauses  to  consider 
whether,  at  a  certain  point,  it  shall  run  downhill  or  up. 
When  Sir  Biilwer  Lytton,  in  his  poem  of  The  New 
Timon,  alluded  to  Mr.  Tennyson  in  disparaging  terms  as 
Miss  Alfred,  no  one  was  surprised  to  read,  in  a  few 


198  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK. 

days,  that  terribly  trenchant  copy  of  verses  in  which 
Mr.  Tennyson  called  Sir  Bulwer  a  Bandbox,  and  showed 
that  the  true  Timon  was  quite  a  different  man  from  the 
Bandbox  with  his  mane  in  curl-papers.  For  such  is  the 
incongruous  imagery  which  the  reader  will  carry  away 
from  that  poem.  And  if  you  happen,  my  reader,  to  be 
acquainted  with  three  or  four  men  who  have  opportunity 
to  carry  on  their  quarrels  in  print,  or  by  speeches  in 
deliberative  assemblies,  and  if  you  refuse  to  take  part 
in  the  quarrels  which  divide  them,  and  keep  resolutely 
on  friendly  terms  with  all,  you  will  be  struck  by  the 
fact  that  the  system  of  mutual  hitting  and  retaliation, 
carried  on  for  a  while,  quite  incapacitates  these  men  for 
doing  each  other  anything  like  justice.  Each  will  occa- 
sionally caution  you  against  his  adversary  as  a  very 
wicked  and  horrible  person  ;  while  you,  knowing  both, 
are  well  aware  that  each  is  in  the  main  an  able  and 
good-hearted  human  being,  not  without  some  salient 
faults,  of  course ;  and  that  the  image  of  each  which  is 
present  to  the  mind  of  the  other  is  a  frightful  carica- 
ture ;  is  about  as  like  the  being  represented  as  the  most 
awful  photograph  ever  taken  by  an  ingenious  youthful 
amateur  is  like  you,  my  good-looking  friend.  I  have 
named  deliberative  assemblies.  P^verybody  knows  in 
how  striking  a  fashion  you  will  find  the  great  principle 
of  retaliation  exhibited  in  such;  and  nowhere,  I  lament 
to  say,  more  decidedly  than  in  presbyteries,  synods,  and 
general  assemblies,  where  you  might  naturally  expect 
better  things.  I  have  heard  a  revered  friend  say,  that 
only  the  imperative  sense  of  duty  would  ever  lead  him 
to  such  places ;  and  that  the  effect  of  their  entire  tone 
upon  his  moral  and  spiritual  nature  was  the  very  reverse 


CONCERNING   THE   RIGHT   TACK.  199 

of  healthful.  One  man,  in  a  speech,  says  something 
sharp  of  another :  of  course,  when  the  first  man  sits 
down,  the  second  gets  up,  and  says  something  unkind  of 
his  brother.  And  you  will  sometimes  find  men,  with  a 
calculating  rancor,  and^  with  what  Mr.  Croker,  speaking 
of  Earl  Eussell,  called  "  a  spiteful  slyness,"  wait  their 
opportunity,  that  they  may  deal  the  return  blow  at  the 
time  and  place  where  it  will  be  most  keenly  felt.  Now 
all  this,  which  is  bad  in  anybody,  is  more  evidently  bad 
in  men  who  on  the  previous  Sunday  were,  not  improb- 
ably, preaching  on  the  duty  of  forgiving  injuries.  All 
clergymen  have  fi-equent  occasion  to  repeat  certain 
words  which  run  to  the  effect,  "  And  forgive  us  our 
trespasses,  as  we  forgive  them  that  trespass  against  us." 
Yet  you  may  find  a  clergyman  here  and  there  whose 
reputation  is  high  as  a  very  hard  hitter,  and  as  one 
who  never  suffers  any  breath  of  assault  to  pass  without 
keenly  retaliating.  If  you  touch  such  a  man,  however 
distantly ;  if,  in  the  midst  of  a  general  panegyric,  you 
venture  to  hint  that  anything  he  has  done  is  wrong,  he 
will  flare  up,  and  you  will  have  a  savage  reply.  You 
know  the  consequence  of  touching  him,  just  as  you 
know  the  consequence  of  giving  a  kick  to  a  ferocious 
bulldog.  Now,  is  that  a  fine  thing  ?  Is  it  anything  to 
boast  of?  I  have  heard  a  middle-aged  man  (not  a 
clergyman)  state  in  an  ostentatious  manner,  that  he 
never  forgot  an  offence ;  that  whoever  touched  him 
would  some  day  (as  schoolboys  say)  catch  it.  All  this 
struck  me  as  tremendously  small.  In  the  case  of  most 
people  who  talk  in  that  way,  it  is  not  true.  They  are 
not  nearly  so  bad  as  they  would  like  you  to  think  them. 
They  don't  cherish  resentments  in  that  vindictive  way. 


200  CONCERXIXG   THE  RIGHT   TACK. 

But  if  it  were  true,  it  would  be  nothing  to  be  proud  of. 
I  iiave  heard  a  man  boast  that  he  had  never  tliauked 
anybody  for  anythini^  all  his  life.  I  thought  him  very 
silly.  He  expected  me  to  think  him  very  great.  I  well 
remember  how,  in  a  certain  senate,  after  two  older  mem- 
bers, each  a  wise  and  good  man  when  you  got  him  in 
his  right  mind,  had  spent  some  time  in  mutual  recrimi- 
nation, a  younger  member  took  occasion  to  point  out 
that  all  this  was  very  far  from  being  right  or  pleasing. 
To  which  one  of  the  good  men  replied,  in  a  ferocious 
voice,  and  with  a  very  red  face,  as  if  that  answer  settled 
the  matter,  '■'■  But  who  began  itV^  No  doubt,  the  other 
had  begun  it ;  and  that  good  man  took  refuge  in  the 
angry  schoolboy's  principle,  "  I  have  a  right  to  hit  him, 
because  he  hit  me  !  " 

I  have  been  speaking,  you  see,  of  those  little  offences, 
and  those  little  retaliations,  which  we  have  occasion 
to  observe  daily  in  the  comparative  triraness  and  re- 
straint of  modern  life,  and  in  a  state  of  society  where  a 
certain  Christian  tone  of  feeling,  and  the  strong  hand  of 
the  law,  limit  the  offences  which  can  be  commonly 
given,  and  the  vengeance  which  can  be  commonly  taken. 
My  good  friend  A,  who  has  beea  several  times  attacked 
in  jjrint  l)y  B,  would  probably  kick  B,  if  various  social 
restraints  did  not  prevent  him.  But,  however  open  the 
way  might  be,  I  really  don't  believe  that  A  would  cut 
B's  throat,  or  burn  his  house  and  children  and  other 
possessions.  No  ;  1  don't  think  he  would.  Still,  there 
is  nothing  I  less  like  to  do  than  to  talk  in  a  dogmatic 
and  confident  fashion.  If  Mr.  C  applies  to  the  univer- 
sity of  D  for  the  honorary  degree  of  Doctor  of  Music, 
and  is  refused  that  distinction,  mainly  (as  C  believes) 


CONCERNING  THE  EIGHT   TACK.  201 

through  the  opposition  of  Professor  E,  although  C  may 
retort  upon  E  by  a  malicious  article  in  a  newspaper, 
contciining  several  gross  fal.-ehoods,  I  really  believe,  and  I 
may  say  I  hope,  and  ev^en  surmise,  that  C,  even  if  he 
had  the  chance,  would  not  exactly  poison  E  with  strych- 
nine. And  I  may  say  that  I  firmly  believe,  from  the 
little  I  have  seen  of  C's  writings  (by  which  alone  I 
know  him),  that  nothing  would  induce  C  to  poison  E,  if 
C  were  entirely  assured  that  if  he  poisoned  E,  he  (C) 
would  infallibly  be  detected  and  hanged.  But  we  are 
cautious  now,  and,  through  various  circumstances,  our 
claws  have  been  cut  short.  It  was  different  long  ago. 
Of  course  we  all  know  how,  in  the  old  days,  insult  or  in- 
jury was  often  wiped  out  in  blood;  how  it  was  a  step  in 
advance  even  to  establish  the  stern  princi{)le  of  "  an  eye 
for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  hand  for  hand,  foot 
for  foot,  burning  for  burning,  wound  for  Avound,  stripe 
for  stripe."  For  that  principle  made  sure  that  the  re- 
taliation should  at  least  not  exceed  the  first  offence  ; 
while  formerly,  and  even  afterwards,  where  that  princi- 
ple was  not  recognized,  very  fanciful  offences  and  very 
small  injuries  sometimes  resulted  in  tlie  quencliing  of 
many  lives,  in  the  carrying  fire  and  sword  over  great 
tracts  of  country,  and  in  the  perpetuating  of  bloody 
feuds  between  whole  tribes  for  age  after  age.  You 
know  that  there  have  been  countries  and  times  in 
which  revenge  was  organized  into  a  scientific  art ;  in 
whicli  the  terrible  vendetta,  proclaimed  between  families, 
was  maintained  through  successive  centuries,  till  one  or 
the  other  was  utterly  extinguished,  and  a  regularly  kept 
record  preserved  the  story  how  this  and  the  other  mem- 
ber of  the  proscribed  race  had  been  ruined,  or  impris- 
9* 


202  CONCERNING   THE  RIGHT  TACK. 

oned  in  a  hopeless  dungeon,  or  by  false  testimony 
brought  within  the  grasp  of  cruel  laws,  or  directly  mur- 
dered outright  by  some  one  of  the  race  to  which  was 
committed  the  task  of  vengeance.  You  know  liow  the 
dying  father  has,  with  his  latest  breath,  charged  his  son 
to  devote  himself  to  the  destruction  of  the  clan  that  lived 
beyond  the  hill  or  across  the  river,  because  of  some  old 
offence  whose  history  was  almost  foi'got  ;  you  know 
how  the  Campbell  and  the  Macgregor,  the  Maxwell 
and  the  Johnstone,  the  Chattan  and  tlie  Quhele  —  in 
Scotland  —  were  hereditary  foes,  and  how,  in  many 
other  instances,  the  very  infant  was  born  into  his  ances- 
tors' quarrel.  You  have  heard  how  a  dying  man,  told 
by  the  minister  of  religion  that  now  he  must  forgive 
every  enemy  as  he  himself  hoped  to  be  forgiven,  has 
said  to  his  surviving  child,  "  Well,  /  must  forgive 
such  a  one,  but  my  curse  be  upon  you  if  you  do ! " 
I  am  not  going  to  give  you  an  historical  view,  or 
anything  like  an  historical  view,  of  a  miserable  sub- 
ject, but  every  reader  knows  Avell  that  there  is  not  a 
blacker  nor  more  deplorable  page  in  the  history  of 
human  kind  than  that  which  tells  us  how  faithfully,  how 
unsparingly,  how  bloodily,  the  great  ])rinciple  of  return- 
ing evil  for  evil  has  been  carried  out  by  human  beings  ; 
the  great  rule,  not  of  doing  to  others  as  you  would  tliat 
they  should  do  to  you,  but  of  doing  to  others  as  ihey 
have  done  to  you,  or  perhaps  as  you  think  they  would 
do  to  you  if  they  had  the  chance  ;  in  short,  the  great 
fundamental  princij)le  of  universal  application,  set  out  in 
the  words  of  my  little  friend  with  the  inchoate  black 
eye,  '•  I  have  a  right  to  hit  him,  because  he  hit  me  first!" 
Now,  all  this  kind  of  thing  is  what  I  mean  by  The 
Wrong  Tack. 


CONCKRNING  THE  EIGHT   TACK.  203 

My  friertdly  reader,  there  is  another  way  of  meeting 
vnjury  and  unkindness,  and  a  better  way.  The  natural 
thing,  unquestionably,  is  to  return  evil  for  evil.  The 
Christian  thing,  and  the  better  way,  is  to  "  overcome  evil 
with  good."  There  was  a  certain  Great  Teacher,  who 
was  infinitely  more  than  a  Great  Teacher,  who  taught 
all  who  should  be  His  followers  till  the  end  of  time,  that 
the  right  thing  would  always  be  to  meet  uukindness  with 
kindness ;  to  forgive  men  their  trespasses  as  we  hope 
our  Heavenly  Father  will  forgive  ours ;  to  love  our  ene- 
mies, bless  them  that  curse  us,  do  good  to  them  that 
hate  us,  and  pray  for  them  which  despitefully  use  us  and 
persecute  us,  —  if  such  people  be.  And  an  eminent 
philosopher,  whom  some  people  would  probably  appre- 
ciate more  highly  if  he  had  not  been  also  an  inspired 
apostle,  spoke  not  unworthily  of  his  Divine  Master  when 
he  said,  "  Recompense  to  no  man  evil  for  evil ;  dearly 
beloved,  avenge  not  yourselves.  If  thine  enemy  hun- 
ger, feed  him ;  if  he  thirst,  give  him  drink.  Be  not 
overcome  of  evil,  but  overcome  evil  with  good." 

Now,  all  this  kind  of  thing  is  what  I  mean  by  The 
Right  Tack. 

There  is  no  need  at  all  to  try  formally  to  define  what 
is  intended  by  the  Right  Tuck.  Everyone  knows  all 
about  it,  and  its  meaning  will  become  plainer  as  we  go 
on.  Of  course,  the  general  idea  is,  that  we  should  try 
to  meet  unkindness  with  kindness  ;  unfairness  with  fair- 
ness ;  a  bad  word  witli  a  good  one.  Tlie  general  idea  is 
this:  Such  a  neighbor  or  acquaintance  has  spoken  of 
you  unhandsomely,  has  treated  you  unjustly.  Well,  you 
determine  that  you  will  not  go  and  make  yourself  as 
bad  as  he  is,  and  carry  on  the  quarrel,  and  increase  the 


204  CONCKRNING  THE   RIGHT  TACK. 

bad  feeling  that  already  exists,  by  trying  to  retort  in 
kind,  —  by  saying  a  bad  word  about  him,  or  by  doing 
lain  an  unfriendly  turn.  No,  you  resolve  to  go  upon 
anotlier  tack  entirely.  You  will  treat  the  person  with 
scnipulous  fairness.  You  try  to  think  kindly  of  him, 
and  to  discover  some  excuse  for  his  conduct  towards 
you  ;  and  if  an  opportunity  occurs  of  doing  him  a  kind 
turn,  you  do  it,  frankly  and  heartily.  Let  me  say,  that 
if  you  try,  in  a  fair  spirit  and  in  a  kind  spirit,  to  discover 
some  excuse  for  the  bad  way  in  which  that  person  has 
treated  you,  or  spoken  of  you,  you  will  seldom  have 
much  difficulty  in  doing  so.  You  will  easily  think  of 
some  little  provocation  you  gave  him,  very  likely  with- 
out in  the  least  intending  it;  you  will  easily  see  thai 
your  neighbor  was  speaking  or  acting  under  some  mis- 
conception or  mistake ;  you  will  easily  enough  tliink  of 
many  little  things  in  his  condition  —  painful,  mortify- 
ing, anxious  things  —  which  may  well  be  taken  as  some 
excuse  for  worse  words  and  doings  than  ever  proceeded 
from  him  concerning  you.  Ah,  my  brother,  most  people 
in  these  days,  if  you  did  but  know  all  their  condition,  all 
about  their  families  and  their  circumstances,  have  so 
many  causes  of  disquiet  and  anxiety  and  irritation  to 
fever  the  weary  heart  and  to  shake  the  shaken  nerves, 
that  a  wise  and  good  man  will  never  make  them  of- 
fenders for  a  hasty  word,  or  even  for  an  uncharitable 
suspicion  or  an  unkind  deed,  very  likely  hardly  said  o; 
done  till  it  was  bitterly  repented.  My  friend  Smitii, 
who  is  one  of  the  best  of  men,  was  one  day  startled,  at- 
tending a  meeting  of  a  certain  senatorial  body,  to  hear 
Mr.  Jones  get  up  and  make  a  speech  in  the  nature  of  a 
most  vicious  attack  upon  Smith.     Smith  listened  atten- 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT   TACK.  205 

lively  to  a  few  paragraphs,  and  then,  turning  to  the  man 
next  to  him,  put  the  following  question  :  "  I  say,  Brown, 
is  not  that  poor  fellow's  stomach  often  vei'y  much  out  of 
order  ?  "  —  "  He  suffers  from  it  horribly,"  was  the  true 
reply.  "  Ah,  that 's  it,  poor  fellow,"  s^aid  Smith ;  "  I  see 
what  it  is  that  is  exacei'bating  his  temper  and  making 
him  talk  in  that  way."  And  when  Jones  sat  down, 
Smith  got  up  with  a  kindly  face,  —  I  don't  mean  with  a 
provokingly  benevolent  and  forgiving  look,  —  and  in  a 
simple,  earnest  way,  justified  the  conduct  which  had  been 
attacked  in  a  manner  which  conveyed  that  he  was  really 
anxious  that  Jones  should  think  well  of  him,  —  all  this 
without  the  slightest  complaint  of  Jones's  bitterness,  or 
the  least  refei'ence  to  it.  Smith  had  only  done  Jones 
justice  in  all  this.  He  had  done  no  more  than  allow 
for  something  which  ought  to  be  allowed  for,  and  Jones 
was  fairly  beaten.  After  the  meeting  he  went  to  Smith 
and  asked  his  pardon,  saying  that  he  really  had  been 
feeling  so  ill  that  he  did  not  know  very  well  what  he 
was  saying.  Smith  shook  hands  with  poor  Jones  in  a 
way  that  warmed  Jones's  heart,  and  they  were  better 
friends  than  ever  from  that  day  furward.  But  in  the  lot 
of  many  a  man  there  are  worse  tilings  than  little  pliysi- 
cal  uneasinesses,  lor  which  a  wise  man  will  always  allow 
in  estimating  an  otfence  given.  Yes,  there  are  people  with 
so  much  to  embitter  them,  —  poor  fellows  so  sadly  dis- 
appointed, —  clever,  sensitive  men  so  terribly  misplaced, 
so  grievously  tried,  with  their  keenly  sensitive  nature  so 
daily  rasped,  so  horribly  blistered  by  coarse,  uncongenial 
natures  and  by  unlia[)py  circumstances,  —  that  I  am  not 
afraid  to  say  that  a  truly  good  niau,  if  such  a  poor  I'ellow 
pitched  into  him  ever  so  bitterly,  or  did  anythmg  short 


206  CONCERNING  THE   RIGHT   TACK. 

of  hitting  him  over  the  head  with  a  more  tlian  common- 
ly thick  stick,  would  do  no  more  than  beg  the  poor  i'el- 
low's  pardon. 

But  mind,  too,  my  friend,  that  all  this  kindly  way  of 
judging  your  fellow-creatures  —  all  this  returning  of 
good  for  evil  —  must  be  a  real  thing,  and  not  a  pre- 
tence. It  must  not  be  a  hypocritical  vaiuishing  over  of 
a  deep,  angry,  and  bitter  feeling  within  us.  It  must  not 
be  something  done  with  the  purpose  of  putting  our 
neighbor  still  further  and  still  more  conspicuously  in  the 
wrong  And  I'ar  less  laust  it  consist  in  mere  words  with 
no  I'Cal  meaning.  Neither  must  it  consist,  as  it  some- 
times in  fact  does,  in  saying  of  an  offending  neighbor, 
"I  bear  him  no  malice;  I  forgive  him  heartily;  I  make 
no  evil  return  for  his  infamous  conduct  towards  me " ; 
when  in  truth,  in  the  very  words  of  ibrgiveness,  you 
have  said  of  your  offending  neighbor  just  the  very  worst 
you  could  say.  You  may  remember  certain  lines  which 
appeared  in  a  London  newspaper  several  years  since, 
which  purported  to  be  a  Iree  translation  into  rhyme  of  a 
speech  made  in  the  House  of  Peers  by  an  eminent 
bishop.  In  that  speech  ihe  blameless  prelate  spoke  of  a 
certain  order  of  men  whose  tastes  were  very  offensive  to 
him.     lie  said  they 

"...  Were  the  vilest  nice 
That  ever  in  eardi  or  hell  had  place. 
He  would  not  prejiul;;e  them:  no,  not  he; 
For  his  soul  o'erflowed  with  cliarity. 
Incarnate  fiend;;,  he  would  not  condemn; 
No,  God  forbid  he  should  slander  them. 
Foul  swine,  their  lordships  must  confess 
He  used  them  with  Christian  gentleness. 
He  hated  all  show  of  persecution, — 
But  why  were  n't  they  sent  to  execution?  " 


CONCERNING   THE   RIGHT   TACK.  207 

I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  these  lines  (which 
rbi'm  part  of  a  considerable  poem)  are  an  extreme  ex- 
aggeration of  what  the  bishop  did  actually  say ;  yet  I 
have  just  as  little  doubt  that  iu  his  speech  the  bishop 
did  exhibit  something  of  that  tone.  For  I  have  known 
human  beings,  not  a  few,  who  diligently  endeavored  to 
combine  the  forgiving  of  a  man  with  the  pitching  into 
him  just  as  hard  as  they  conveniently  could.  Now,  that 
will  not  do.  You  must  make  your  choice.  You  cannot 
at  the  same  time  have  the  satisfaction  of  wreaking  your 
vengeance  upon  one  who  has  injured  you,  and  likewise 
the  magnanimous  pleasure  of  tliinking  that  you  have 
Christianly  forgiven  him.  Your  returning  of  good  for 
evil  must  be  a  leal  thing.  It  must  be  done  heartily, 
and  without  reservation  in  your  awn  mind,  or  it  is  noth- 
ing at  all.  Uriah  Ileep,  in  Mr.  Dickens's  beautiful 
story,  forgave  David  Copperfield  for  striking  him  a 
blow.  But  Uriah  Heep  never  did  anything  more  vi- 
cious, more  thoi'oughly  malignant,  than  that  hypocritical 
act.  But  it  was  vicious  and  malignant,  just  because  it 
was  hypocritical.  In  matters  like  this,  sincerity  is  the 
touchstone. 

I  suppose  most  readers  will  agree  with  me  when  I 
say  that  I  know  no  Christian  duty  which  is  so  griev- 
ously neglected  by  people  claiming  to  be  extremely 
good.  There  is  no  mistake  whatever  as  to  what  is  the 
Christian  way  of  meeting  an  unkindness  or  an  unfriend- 
ly act;  it  is  very  desirable  that  professing  Christians  had 
more  faith  in  its  efficiency !  It  would  be  well  if  we 
could  all  heartily  believe,  and  act  upon  the  belief,  that 
our  Maker  knows  and  advises  tlie  right  and  happy  waj- 
of  meeting  a  bad  turn  when  it  may  be  done  to  us,  how- 


208  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT   TACK. 

ever  naturally  our  own  hearts  may  suggest  a  very  differ- 
ent way !  But  I  lear  that  our  experience  of  life  has 
convinced  most  of  us,  that  this  duty  of  returning  good 
for  evil  is  one  that  is  very  commonly  and  very  thorough- 
ly shelved.  A  great  many  people  set  it  aside,  as  some- 
lliing  all  very  good  and  })roj)er,  very  fit  for  the  iJible  to 
recommend,  setting  up  (as  the  Bible  of  course  ought  to 
do)  a  perfect  ideal,  but  as  something  that  will  not  work. 
We  have  all  a  little  of  that  I'eeling  latent  in  us.  And 
here  and  there  you  may  lind  a  human  being,  perhajis  a 
person  of  an  exceedingly  loud  and  ostentatious  religious 
profession,  who  is  so  touchy,  so  ready  to  take  offence, 
and  then  so  vindictive  and  unsparing  in  following  up  the 
man  that  gave  it,  and  in  retaliating  by  word  and  deed, 
—  by  abusive  speeches  and  malicious  writings  and  llill^^ 
demeanor  generally,  —  that  it  is  extremely  plain  that, 
though  that  man  might  sympathetically  siiake  his  head 
if  he  were  told  to  "  overcome  evil  with  good,"  and  ac- 
cept that  as  a  noble  precept,  still  his  real  motto  ought 
rather  to  be  tliat  simple  and  compendious  rule  of  li;e, 
'*  1  will  hit  you  if  you  hit  me  ! " 

1  am  going  to  point  out  certain  reasons  which  make 
me  call  the  rule  of  meeting  evil  with  good  the  Right 
Tack,  and  the  rule  of  meeting  e\il  with  evil  tlie  Wro^ig 
Tuck.  For  one  thing,  the  liight  Tack  is  tiie  effectual 
way.  AVhat  the  second  thing  is  1  don't  choose  to  tell 
you  till  }  ou  arrive  at  it  in  the  regular  course  of  dili- 
gently jeading  these  pages.  Let  there  be  no  skipping. 
iSo,  for  one  tiling  at  a  time,  the  Right  Tack  is  tlie  effec- 
tual thing. 

Of  course,  the  natural  impulse  is  to  return  a  blotv, 
and  to  re.ient  an  injury  or  insult.     That  is  the  lirst  thing 


CONCERNING  THE   RIGHT  TACK.  209 

that  we  are  ready  to  do.  We  do  that  almost  instinct- 
ively, certainly  with  little  previous  reflection.  And  a 
brute  does  that  just  as  naturally  as  a  man.  It  is  nothing 
to  boast  of  that  you  stand  on  the  same  level  as  a  vicious 
horse,  or  a  savage  bulldog,  or  an  angry  hornet.  But 
then,  that  does  not  overcome  the  evil.  No,  it  perpetu- 
ates and  increases  it.  It  provokes  a  rejoinder  in  kind  ; 
that  provokes  another,  and  thus  the  mischief  grows,  till 
from  a  small  offence  at  the  beginning,  vast  and  compre- 
hensive sin  and  misery  have  arisen.  But  go  on  the 
other  tack,  and  you  will  soon  see,  from  the  little  child 
at  play  up  to  the  worn  man  with  his  long  experience  of 
this  world,  how  the  soft  answer  turns  away  wrath,  and 
the  kind  and  good  deed  beats  tlie  evil.  There  is  a  beau- 
tiful little  tract  called  The  Man  that  killed  his  Neighbors, 
which  sets  forth  how  a  good  man,  coming  to  a  cantan- 
kerous district,  by  pure  force  of  persevering  and  hearty 
kindness,  faii-ly  killed  various  unfriendly  neighbors,  who 
met  him  witli  many  unfriendly  acts.  He  killed  the 
enemy;  that  is,  he  did  not  kill  the  individual  man,  but 
the  enemy  was  altogether  annihilated,  and  the  individual 
man  continued  to  exist  as  a  iixst  fiiend.  There  is  some- 
tliing  left  in  average  human  nature  even  yt-t,  wliich 
makes  it  very  hard  indeed  to  go  on  doing  ill  to  a  man 
who  goes  on  showing  kindness  to  you.  You  may  get 
that  tract  for  twopence;  go  and  pay  your  twopence,  and 
(alter  finishing  tliis  essay)  read  that  tract.  No  doubt 
there  is  so  nuich  that  is  mean  and  unworthy  in  some 
hearts,  and  people  so  naturally  judge  others  by  tiiein- 
selves,  that  there  may  be  found  those  wlio  cannot  under- 
stand this  returning  of  good  for  evil,  who  will  suspect 
there  is  something  wrong  lurking  under  it,  and  who  will 


210  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT   TACK. 

not  believe  that  it  is  all  sincere  and  hearty.  And  many 
an  honest  and  ibrs'ivincr  heart  has  felt  it  as  a  trial  to 
have  its  good  intentions  so  misconceived.  My  friend 
Green  once  wrote  an  article  in  a  magazine.  In  a  cer- 
tain brilliant  weekly  periodical  there  appeared  a  notice 
of  that  article,  finding  fault  with  it.  And  a  week  or 
two  after,  in  another  article  in  the  magazine,  Green,  in 
a  good-natured  way,  replied  to  the  notice  in  the  weekly 
periodical,  and  while  defending  himself  in  so  far,  admit- 
ted candidly  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  the 
strictures  of  the  weekly  periodical.  Green  did  all  that, 
just  as  bears  and  lions  growl  and  fight,  because  it  was 
"  his  nature  too,"  it  cost  him  no  elfort ;  and  assuredly 
there  was  no  hypocritical  afiectation  in  what  he  did.  He 
felt  no  bitterness,  and  .-o  he  showed  none.  He  was 
amused  by  the  clever  attack  upon  him,  and  showed  that 
lie  was  amused.  Some  time  after  this,  I  read  an  ill- 
natured  notice  of  Green  in  a  newspaper,  in  which, 
among  his  other  misdoings,  there  was  reckoned  up  this 
rejoinder  to  the  brilliant  weekly  periodical.  He  was 
likened  to  Uriah  Ileep,  already  mentioned ;  he  was  ac- 
cused of  hypocrisy,  of  arrogant  humility,  and  the  like. 
Of  course  it  was  manifest  to  all  who  knew  Green,  that 
his  assailant  knew  as  much  about  Green's  ciiaracter  as 
he  does  about  the  unexplored  tracts  of  Central  Africa. 
But  a  mean-spirited  man  cannot  even  understand  a  gen- 
erous one ;  and  the  assailant  could  not  find  it  in  himself 
to  believe  that  Green  was  a  frank,  honest  man,  writing 
out  of  the  frankness  of  an  uni^uspecting  heart.  So,  X 
and  Y  were  once  attacked  in  print  by  Z.  X  thereafter 
cut  Z.  Y  remained  on  friendly  terms  with  Z,  as  pre- 
viously.    Y  pointed  out  to  X  that  it  is  foolish  to  quarrel 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT   TACK.  211 

with  a  man  for  attacking  you,  even  sevei-ely,  upon  prop- 
erly critical  grounds.  Y  further  said  tliat  he  would 
never  quarrel  with  a  man  who  attacked  him  even  in  the 
most  unfair  way  ;  that  he  would  treat  the  attacking  party 
with  kindness,  and  try  to  show  him  that  his  unfavorable 
estimate  was  a  mistaken  one.  "  Ah  ! "  replied  X,  "  you 
are  scheming  to  get  Z  to  puff  you  !  "  To  meet  evil  with 
good,  X  plainly  thought,  is  a  thing  that  could  not  be 
done  in  good  faitli,  and  just  because  it  is  the  right  thing 
to  do.  There  must  be  some  underhand,  unworthy 
motive ;  and  the  greatest  obstacle  that  you  are  likely 
to  find,  in  habitually  meeting  evil  with  good,  will  be  the 
misconstruction  of  your  conduct  by  some  of  tlie  people 
that  know  you.  No  doubt  Uriah  Keep  himself  and  all 
his  relatives  will  be  ready  to  represent  that  you  are  a 
humbug  and  a  sneak.  Well,  it  is  a  great  pity  ;  but 
you  cannot  help  that.  Go  on  still  on  the  JRiffht  Tack, 
and  by  and  by  it  will  come  to  be  understood  that  you 
go  upon  it  in  all  honesty  and  truth,  and  with  no  sinister 
nor  underhand  purpose.  And  when  this  comes  to  be 
understood,  then  tiie  evil  in  almost  every  case  will  be 
overcome,  and  that  effectually.  No  human  being,  unless 
some  quite  exceptionally  hardened  reprobate,  will  long 
go  on  doing  ill  to  another  who  only  and  habitually 
retarns  good  lor  it. 

This  is  not  an  essay  for  Sunday  reading :  it  is  meant 
to  be  quietly  read  over  upon  the  evening  of  any  day 
from  Monday  till  Saturday  inclusive.  But  that  is  no 
reason  why  I  should  not  say  to  you,  my  friend,  that  you. 
and  I  ought  to  bring  tlie  whole  ibrcq  of  our  Christian 
Hie  and  principle  to  bear  upon  this  point.  Let  us  deter- 
mine that,  by  the  help  of  God's  Holy  Spirit,  without 


212  COXCEHNING   THE   RIGHT  TACK. 

whom  we  can  do  nothing  as  we  ought,  we  shall  faith- 
fully go  upon  the  right  tack  through  all  the  little  ruffles 
and  ollences  of  daily  life.  If  the  sharp  retort  conies  to 
your  lips,  remember  that  it  touches  the  momentous 
question  whether  you  are  a  Christian  at  all,  or  not,  that 
you  hold  that  sharp  word  back,  and  say  a  kind  one.  If 
Mr.  A.  or  Miss  B.  (a  ])oor  old  maid,  soured  a  good  deal 
by  a  tolerably  bitter  lite)  speak  unkindly  of  you,  or  do 
you  some  little  injustice,  say  a  good  word  or  do  a  good 
deed  to  either  of  them  in  return.  Pray  for  God's  grace 
to  help  you  habitually  to  do  all  that.  It  will  not  be 
easy  to  do  all  that  at  the  first ;  but  it  will  always  grow 
easier  the  longer  you  try  it.  It  will  grow  easier,  be- 
cause the  resolution  to  go  on  the  right  tack  will  gain 
strength  by  habit.  And  it  will  grow  easier  too,  because 
when  those  around  you  know  that  you  honestly  take 
Christ's  own  way  of  returning  an  injury,  not  many  will 
have  the  heart  to  injure  you :  very  ^cw  will  injure  you 
twice.  I  have  the  lirmest  belief,  that  the  true  system 
of  mental  philoso]*]])'  is  that  which  is  implied  in  the 
New  Testament ;  and  that  there  never  was  anyone  who 
knew  .s^o  well  the  kind  of  thing  that  would  suit  the 
whole  constitution  of  man,  and  the  whole  system  of  this 
universe,  as  He  who  made  tliem  both. 

One  case  is  worth  many  reasonings.  Let  me  relate  a 
true  stoiy.  Not  many  years  since  there  was  in  Mesopo- 
tamia a  Christian  merchant;  of  great  wealth,  and  with 
the  Right  Spirit  in  him.  A  neighboring  trader,  who 
did  not  know  much  about  the  Christian  merchant,  pub- 
lished a  calumniou-;  pamplilet  aljout  him.  The  Chris- 
tian merchant  read  it:  it  was  very  abusive  and  wicked 
and   malicious.     In  polut  of  style  it  was  something  like 


CONCERNING  THE   RIGHT   TACK.  213 

the  little  document  which  contains  the  articles  about 
Good  Words  wliich  appeared  in  a  newspaper  called 
Christian  Charity.  The  Christian  merchant,  I  repeat, 
read  the  pamphlet.  All  he  said  was,  that  the  man  who 
wrote  it  would  be  sorry  for  it  some  day.  This  was  told 
the  libellous  trader,  who  replied  that  he  would  take 
care  that  the  Christian  merchant  should  never  have  the 
chance  of  hurtinj^  him.  But  men  in  trade  cannot 
always  decide  who  their  creditors  shall  be ;  and  in  a 
few  months  the  trader  became  a  bankrupt,  and  the 
Christian  merchant  was  his  chief  creditor.  The  poor 
man  sought  to  naake  some  arrangement  that  would  let 
him  work  for  his  children  again.  But  every  one  told 
liim  that  this  was  impossible  without  the  consent  of  Mr. 
Grant.  l^hat  was  the  Christian  merchant's  honored 
name.  " I  need  not  go  to  him"  the  ])Oor  bankrupt 
said;  "lean  expect  no  favor  from  him."  —  "  Try  him," 
said  somebody  who  knew  the  good  man  better.  So  the 
bankrupt  went  to  Mr.  Grant,  and  told  his  sad  story  of 
heavy  losses,  and  of  heartless  work  and  sore  anxiety 
and  privation,  and  asked  Mr.  Grant's  signature  to  a 
paper  already  signed  by  the  others  to  whom  he  was  in- 
debted. "  Give  me  the  paper,"  said  Mr.  Grant,  sitting 
down  at  his  desk.  It  was  given,  and  the  good  man,  as 
lie  glanced  over  it,  said,  "  You  wrote  a  pampldet  about 
me  once;"  and,  witliout  waiting  a  rciily,  handed  back 
the  paper,  having  written  something  \\\>o\\  it.  The  poor 
bankrupt  expected  to  find  libeller  or  slanderer,  or  some- 
thing like  that  written.  But  no :  there  it  was,  fair  and 
plain,  the  signature  that  was  needed  to  give  him  anotlier 
chance  in  life.  "  I  said  you  would  be  sorry  for  writing 
that  pamphlet,"    the    good   man   went  on.     "  I  did  not 


214  CONCERNING   THE   RIGHT  TACK. 

mean  it  as  a  threat.  I  meant  that  some  day  you  would 
know  me  better,  and  see  tliat  I  did  not  deserve  to  be 
attacked  in  that  way.  And  now,"  said  the  good  man, 
"  tell  me  all  about  your  prospects ;  and  especially  tell 
me  how  your  wife  and  children  are  faring."  The  .poor 
trader  told  him,  that  to  partly  meet  his  debts  he  had 
given  up  everything  he  had  in  the  world ;  and  that  for 
many  days  they  had  hardly  had  bread  to  eat  "  That 
will  never  do,"  said  the  Christian  merchant,  putting  in 
the  poor  man's  hand  money  enough  to  supjiort  the 
pinched  wife  and  children  for  many  weeks.  "  This  will 
last  for  a  little,  and  you  shall  have  more  when  it  is 
gone ;  and  I  shall  find  some  way  to  help  you,  and  by 
God's  blessing  you  will  do  beautifully  yet.  Don't  lose 
heart :  I  '11  stand  by  you ! "  I  suppose  I  need  not  tell 
you  that  the  poor  man's  full  heart  fairly  overflowed, 
and  he  went  away  crying  like  a  child.  Yes,  the  Right 
Tack  is  the  effectual  thing !  To  meet  evil  with  good 
fairly  beats  the  evil,  and  jnits  it  down.  The  poor  debtor 
was  set  on  his  feet  again :  the  hungry  little  children 
were  fed.  And  the  trader  never  ])ublished  an  attack 
upon  that  good  man  again  as  long  as  he  lived.  And 
among  the  good  man's  muliitinle  of  friends,  as  he  grew 
old  among  all  the  things  that  should  accompany  old  age, 
there  wa-<  not  a  ti'uer  or  heartier  one  than  the  old  enemy 
thus  fairly  beaten!  Yes,  my  reader:  let  us  go  upon 
the  Right  Tack! 

And  now  for  the  other  reason  I  promised  to  give  you 
why  I  call  all  this  the  Right  Tack.  It  is  not  merely 
the  most  effectual  thing;  it  is  the  hai)i)iest  thing.  You 
will  feel  jolly  (to  use  a  powerful  and  classical  expres- 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK.  215 

Bion)  when,  in  spite  of  strong  temptation  to  take  the 
other  way,  you  resolutely  go  on  the  right  tack.  I  sup- 
pose that  when  the  poor  trader  already  named  went 
away  with  his  full  heart,  feeling  himself  a  different  man 
from  what  he  had  been  when  he  entered  the  merchant's 
room,  and  hastening  home  to  tell  his  wife  and  children 
that  he  had  found  God's  kind  angel  in  the  shape  of  a 
white-haired  old  gentleman  in  a  snuff-colored  suit,  and 
wearing  gaiters,  —  I  suppose  there  would  not  be  many 
happier  men  in  this  world  than  that  truly  Christian 
merchant  prince.  He  was  very  much  accustomed,  in- 
deed, to  the  peculiar  feeling  of  a  man  who  has  returned 
good  for  evil ;  but  this  feeling  is  one  which  no  familiar- 
ity can  bring  into  contempt.  But  suppose  IMr.  Grant 
had  gone  on  the  otJier  tack ;  said,  "  You  libelled  me 
once,  it  is  my  turn  now ;  you  shall  smart  for  it."  I 
don't  think  any  of  us  would  envy  him  his  malignant  sat- 
isfaction. And  when  he  went  home  that  night  to  his 
grand  house,  and  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  which  came 
of  his  great  wealth,  I  don't  think  he  would  relish  them 
more  for  thinking  of  the  bare  home  where  the  poor 
debtor  had  gone,  with  his  last  hopes  crushed,  and  for 
thinking  of  the  little  hungry  children,  —  of  little  Tom 
sobbing  himself  to  sleep  without  any  sujjper,  —  of  little 
Mary,  somewhat  older,  saying  with  her  thin,  white  face, 
that  she  did  not  want  any.  At  least,  if  he  had  found 
happiness  in  all  this,  most  human  beings,  with  human 
hearts,  would  class  him  with  devils,  rather  than  with 
men.  Give  me  Lucifer  at  once,  with  horns  and  hoofs, 
I'ather  than  the  rancorous  old  villain  in  the  snuli-colored 
6uit! 

It  causes  suffering  to  ordinary  human  beings  to    be 


216  CONCERNING   THE   RIGHT   TACK. 

involved  in  strife.  It  is  a  dull,  ranklinjr  ]iain.  It  has  a 
cross-iiifliience  on  all  you  do.  And  reading  your  Bible, 
and  praying  to  God,  it  will  often  come  ai-ross  you  with 
a  sad  sense  of  self- accusing.  You  will  not  be  able  to 
entirely  acquit  yourself  of  blame.  You  will  feel  that 
all  this  is  not  very  consistent  with  your  Christian  pro- 
fession, with  your  seasons  at  the  communion-table,  with 
your  prayers  for  forgiveness  as  you  hope  to  be  forgiven, 
with  the  remembrance  that  in  a  little  while  you  must 
lay  down  your  weary  head  and  die.  The  man  who  has 
dealt  another  a  stinging  blow  in  return  for  some  injury, 
the  man  who  has  made  an  exceedingly  clever  and  bitter 
retort,  in  speech  or  in  writing,  may  feel  a  certain  com- 
placency, thinking  how  well  he  has  done  it,  and  what 
vexation  he  has  probably  caused  to  a  fellow-sinner  and 
fellow-sufferer.  But  he  cannot  be  happy.  He  cannot ! 
He  cannot  know  the  real  glow  of  heart  tliat  you  will 
feel,  my  reader,  when  God's  blessed  Spirit  has  helped 
you  with  all  your  heart  to  do  something  kind  and  good 
to  an  offending  brother.  Yes,  it  is  the  greatest  luxury 
in  which  a  human  being  can  indulge  himself,  the  luxury 
of  going  upon  the  Right  Tack  when  you  are  strongly 
tempted  to  go  upon  the  Wrong  ! 

I  must  speak  seriously.  I  cannot  help  it.  All  this  is 
unutterably  important,  and  I  caimot  leave  you,  my 
friend,  with  any  show  of  lightness  in  speaking  about  it 
All  this  is  of  the  very  essence  of  our  religion  ;  it  goes 
to  the  great  question,  whether  or  not  we  are  Christian 
people  at  all  ;  it  touches  the  very  ground  of  our  accept- 
ance with  God,  and  the  i)ardon  of  our  manifold  sins. 
Tliere  are  certain  words  never  to  be  forgotten  :  "  If  ye 
forgive  men  their  trespasses,  your  Heavenly  Father  will 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT   TACK.       '  217 

also  forgive  you.  But  if  ye  forgive  not  men  their  tres- 
passes, neither  will  your  Father  forgive  your  trespasses." 
Yes,  the  taint  of  rankling  malice  in  our  hearts,  when  we 
go  to  God  and  ask  for  pardoning  mercy,  will  turn  our 
prayers  into  an  imprecation  for  wrath.  "  Forgive  us 
our  debts,  as  we  forgive  our  debtors " ;  forgive  us  our 
ein)  against  Thee,  just  as  much  as  we  forgive  other  men 
their  offences  against  us  ;  that  is,  not  at  all !  Think  of 
the  unforgi\ing  man  or  woman  who  returns  evil  for  evil 
going  to  God  with  that  prayer  !  I  cannot  say  how  glad 
and  thankful  I  should  be  if  I  thought  that  all  this  I  have 
been  writing  would  really  influence  some  of  tliose  who 
may  read  this  page  to  resolve,  by  God's  grace,  that 
when  they  are  daily  tempted  to  little  resentments  by 
little  offences,  —  and  it  is  only  by  these  that  most  Chris- 
tians in  actual  life  are  trifed,  —  they  will  habitually  go 
on  the  Right  Tack  !  But  remember,  my  friend,  that 
nothing  you  have  read  is  more  real  and  practical,  — 
nothing  bears  more  directly  upon  the  interests  of  the 
life  we  are  daily  leading,  with  all  its  little  worries,  trials, 
and  cares,  —  than  what  I  say  now,  that  it  is  only  by  the 
help  and  grace  of  the  Holy  S})irit  of  God  that  you  can 
ever  thoroughly  and  effectually  do  what  I  mean  by  go- 
ing upon  the  Right  Tack.  A  calm  and  kindly  tempera- 
ment is  good  ;  a  disposition  to  see  what  may  be  said  in 
defence  of  such  as  offend  you  is  good ;  and  doubtless 
these  are  helps,  but  sometiiing  far  more  and  higher  is 
needed.  Tliere  must  be  a  loftier  and  more  excellent 
inspiration  than  that  of  the  calm  head  and  the  kind 
heart.  You  will  never  do  anything  riglitly,  never  any- 
thing steadfastly,  tiiat  goes  against  the  grain  of  human 
natui-e,  except  by  the  grace  of  that  Blessed  One  who 
10 


218  CONCERNING   THE   RIGHT   TACBl. 

makes  us  new  creatures  iu  Christ.  There  will  be  sorae- 
thine;  that  will  not  ring  sound  about  all  that  meeting 
evil  with  good,  which  does  not  proceed  from  the  new 
heart,  and  the  right  spirit  sanctified  of  God. 

Now,  let  there  be  no  misunderstanding  of  all  this, 
and  no  pushing  it  into  an  extreme  opposed  to  common 
sense.  All  this  that  has  been  said  has  been  said  con- 
cerning tlie  little  offeuccs  of  daily  life.  As  regards 
these,  I  believe  that  what  I  have  called  the  Right  Tack 
is  the  effectual  thing  and  the  happy  thing.  But  I  am 
no  advocate  of  the  principle  of  non-resistance.  I  am  no 
member  of  tiie  Peace  Society.  I  liave  no  wish  to  see 
Britain  disband  her  armies,  and  dismantle  her  navj',  and 
lie  as  a  helpless  prey  at  the  mercy  of  any  tyrant  or 
invader.  No :  I  should  wish  our  country's  claws  to  be 
sharp  and  strong ;  Oiat  is  the  way  to  prevent  the  need 
for  their  use  from  arising.  I  sliould,  with  regret,  but 
without  conscientious  scruple,  shoot  a  burglar  who  in- 
tended to  murder  me.  1  heartily  approve  the  blowing 
of  a  rebel  sepoy  away  from  a  cannon.  Aud  though  the 
punishment  of  death,  as  inflicted  in  this  country,  is  a 
miserable  necessity,  still  I  believe  it  is  a  necessity,  and 
a  thing  morally  riglit,  in  almost  every  case  in  which  it 
is  inflicted.  All  tliat  has  been  said  about  the  returning 
of  good  for  evil  is  to  be  read  in  the  light  of  common 
sense.  There  are  bad  people  whom  you  cannot  tame  or 
put  down,  except  by  the  severe  hand  of  Justice.  And 
in  taming  them  in  the  only  possible  way  you  are  doing 
notliing  inconsistent  with  the  views  set  forth  in  these 
pages.  It  would  take  too  much  time  to  argue  tlie  mat- 
ter fully  out;  and  it  is  really  needless.  A  wrong- 
beaded  man,  a  member  of  the  Peace  Society,  has  pub- 


CONCERNING   THE   RIGHT   TACK.  219 

lished  a  pamphlet  in  which  he  frankly  tells  us  that  if 
he  and  his  wife  and  children  were  about  to  be  mur- 
dered by  a  burglar,  and  if  there  was  no  possibility  of 
preventing  this  murdering  except  by  killing  the  burg- 
lar, then  it  would  be  the  duty  of  a  Christian  to  die  as  a 
martyr  to  his  principles,  and  peaceably  allow  the  burg- 
lar to  murder  him  and  his  family.  Really  there  is  noth- 
ing to  be  said  in  reply  to  such  a  puzzle-head,  except  that 
I  would  just  as  soon  believe  that  black  is  white  as  that 
that  is  a  Christian  duty.  There  are  exceptional  human 
beings  who  are  really  wild  beasts,  and  who  must  be 
treated  precisely  as  a  savage  wild  beast  should  be 
treated.  And  even  in  the  matter  of  injuries  of  a  less 
decided  character  than  the  murdering  of  yourself,  your 
wife,  and  children,  it  is  as  plain  as  need  be  that  a  wise 
and  good,  man  may  very  fitly  defend  himself  against  the 
aggression  of  a  ruffian.  "When  Mr.  INIacpherson  threat- 
ened to  thrash  Dr.  Johnson  for  expi'essing  doubts  as  to 
the  genuineness  of  Ossian,  Dr.  Johnson  was  quite  right 
to  provide  a  stick  of  great  size  and  weight,  and  to  carry 
it  about  with  him  for  tlie  purpose  of  self-defence.  And 
while  desirous  to  obey  the  spirit  of  the  Saviour's  com- 
mand, th('re  are  few  things  of  whicli  I  feel  more  certain, 
than  that  if  a  blackguard  struck  my  good  friend  Dr. 
A  on  the  riglit  cheek,  the  blameless  divine  would  not 
turn  the  other  also.  Nor  need  we  make  the  least  objec- 
tion to  the  motto  of  a  certain  Northern  country,  which 
conveys  that  people  had  better  be  careful  how  they  do 
that  country  any  wrong,  inasmuch  as  that  country  won't 
stand  it.  There  is  nothing  amiss  in  the  '•'Nemo  me  iin- 
pune  lacesset."  Don't  meddle  w^ith  us ;  we  have  not 
the  least  wish  to  meddle  with  you. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 


T  the  present  moment  I  feel  very  uncomfort- 
able ;  not  physically,  but  mentally  and  mor- 
ally. And  I  do  not  know  why.  AVhat  I 
mean  is,  that  a  little  ago  some  disagreeable 
thought  was  presented  to  my  mind  which  put  me  quite 
out  of  sorts.  And  though  I  have  forgot  what  the  dis- 
agreeable thought  was,  its  efl'ect  remains,  and  I  still  feel 
out  of  sorts.  I  am  aware  of  a  certain  moral  aching 
which  I  cannot  refer  to  its  cause.  I  suppose,  my  reader, 
you  have  often  felt  the  like.  You  have  been  conscious 
of  a  certain  gloom,  depression,  bewilderment,  —  not  re- 
membering what  it  was  that  started  it.  But  .after  a  little 
time  it  suddenly  flashes  on  you,  and  you  remember  the 
whole  thing. 

I  can  imagine  a  man  going  to  be  hanged,  waking  up 
on  the  fatal  morning  with  a  dull  a<;liing  sense  of  some- 
thing wrong,  be  does  not  know  what,  till  all  at  once  the 
dreadi'ul  reality  glares  upon  him.  Some  of  us  have  had 
the  experience,  as  little  boys,  when  coming  back  to  con- 
sciousness on  the  morning  of  the  day  we  had  to  return 
to  school,  far  away  from  home.    In  certain  cases,  return- 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  221 

ing  to  school  is  to  a  boy  not  many  degrees  less  unendur- 
able than  being  hanged  is  to  a  man.  Of  course  there  is 
no  remorse  in  the  case  of  the  little  schoolboy,  and  here 
is  a  discrepance  between  the  cases  suggested.  But  in- 
deed it  is  vain  to  estimate  the  relative  crushing  powers 
of  two  great  trials.  Each  at  the  time  is  just  as  much 
as  one  can  bear. 

But  (to  go  back  a  little)  just  as  a  strong  hand,  seven 
hundred  years  since,  set  a  large  stone  in  its  place  in  a 
cathedral  wall,  and  the  stone  remains  there  to-day, 
thougli  the  hand  that  placed  it  is  gone  and  forgot,  in  like 
manner  some  painiul  refiection  jars  the  human  mind  and 
puts  it  out  of  joint,  and  it  remains  jarred  and  out  of 
joint  after  the  painful  reflection  has  passed  away.  A 
cloud  passes  between  us  and  the  sun,  and  a  sudden 
gloom  and  chill  fall  upon  all  things.  But,  strange  to 
say,  in  the  moral  world,  after  the  cloud  that  brought  the 
gloom  and  chill  has  passed,  the  gloom  and  chill  remain. 
And  thus  a  human  being  may  feel  very  uncomfortable, 
and  know  that  he  has  good  reason  for  being  uncomfort- 
able, yet  not  know  what  the  reason  is.  If  you  receive 
ten  letters  before  breakfast,  you  open  them  all  and  read 
tliem  hastily.  It  is  very  likely  that  one  of  the  ten  con- 
tains some  rather  disagreeable  communication.  You 
forget,  ill  a  minute,  as  you  skim  the  newspaper  and  take 
your  breakfast,  what  that  disagreeable  communication 
was  ;  yet  still  you  take  your  breakfast  with  a  certain 
weight  upon  your  spirits,  with  a  certain  vague  sense  of 
something  amiss. 

What  is  it  that  is  wrong  thi>  Saturday  evening  at 
9.10  P.  M.  ?  Nothing  is  wrong  physically.  Too  thank- 
ful would  this  writer  be  if  he  could  but  be  assured  that 


222  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS   FEARS. 

on  all  the  Saturday  evenings  of  his  life  he  would  be  as 
happily  placed  as  he  is  now.  To-morrow  he  is  to  preach 
at  his  own  church,  and  daring  the  week  all  but  gone  he 
hath  prepared  two  new  discourses  to  be  preached  on 
that  day.  Indurated  must  be  that  man's  conscience,  or 
very  lightly  must  that  man  take  his  work,  who  does  not 
feel  a  certain  glow  of  satisfaction  on  the  Saturday  eve- 
ning of  a  week  wherein  he  has  prepared  two  new  dis- 
courses. You  remark,  I  don't  say  two  new  sermons. 
No  sensible  mortal  can  prepare,  or  would  try  to  prepare, 
two  new  sermons  in  one  week.  But  he  may  prepare  one 
sermon  and  one  lecture,  which  (being  added  one  to  the 
other)  will  be  found  to  amount  to  two  discourses.  But 
any  one  who  knows  the  long  and  hard  work  which  goes 
to  the  production  of  a  sermon  which  people  may  be  ex- 
pected to  listen  to,  will  feel,  as  he  sews  up  his  manu- 
script, the  peculiar  satisfaction  which  attends  the  con- 
templation of  "  sometliiug  attempted,  something  done." 

Yes,  I  remember  now.  Something  I  thought  of  this 
morning  has  come  with  me  all  the  day,  making  me  feel 
gloomy  even  while  forgetting  what  it  was.  You  know 
how  a  severe  sting  from  a  nettle  leaves  behind  it  a  cer- 
tain starting  pain,  hours  after  the  first  heat  of  the  sting 
is  gone.  So  it  was  here.  And  in  this,  too,  is  a  point 
of  difference  between  the  material  and  moral  world. 
In  the  material  world,  if  a  table  stands  on  three  legs, 
and  you  in  succession  saw  off  the  three  legs,  the  table 
goes  down.  But  in  the  moral  world  (especially  in  the 
case  of  old  women),  if  a  belief  or  a  feeling  founds  upon 
three  reasons  (or  legs),  though  you  in  succession  take 
away  those  reasons,  the  table  often  still  stands  as  before. 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS   FEARS.  223 

The  physical  table  cannot  do  without  legs.  The  moral 
table  often  stands  firmest  when  it  has  no  legs  whatever. 
The  beliefs  which  men  often  hold  most  resolutely  are 
those  for  which  not  merely  they  can  give  no  reason,  but 
for  which  no  reason  could  be  given  by  anybody. 

I  was  thinking  of  the  fears  which  eat  the  heart  out  of 
so  many  lives.     And  this  was  my  reflection. 

When  I  was  a  boy,  there  was  exhibited  in  London 
what  was  called  a  Centrifugal  Railway.  Let  me  re- 
quest you  earnestly  to  attend  to  the  subjoined  diagram. 

A 

B 


The  line  A  D  C  B  represents  the  Centrifugal  Rail- 
way. You  started  from  the  point  A  in  a  little  carriage. 
It  acquired  a  very  great  velocity  in  running  down  the 
descent  from  A  to  D ;  a  velocity  so  great  that  it  ran 
right  round  the  circle  C,  turning  the  passenger  with  his 
head  downwards,  and  finally  got  safely  to  B.  At  the 
point  B  the  passenger  got  out,  and  if  he  were  a  person  of 
sense  (which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  by  no  means 
pi-obable),  he  resolved  never  to  travel  by  the  Centrifu- 
gal Railway  any  more. 

Now,  you  observe  that  in  turning  the  circle  C  the 
passenger  was  in  a  very  critical  position.  He  had  good 
reason  to  be  thankful  when  the  circle  was  fairly  turned, 
and  lie  had,  with  unbroken  bones,  reached  B.  And  it 
struck  me,  that  all  our  life  here  is  like  tlie  circle  C  on 
the  Centrifugal  Railway.  I  shall  be  able  to  think  dif- 
ferently in  a  day  or  two,  more  hopefully  and  cheerfully ; 


224  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

but  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  after  all,  my  friends, 
we  are  doing  no  more  in  this  life  than  getting  round  the 
circle  C ;  and  that  there  are  so  many  risks  in  the  way, 
that  we  may  be  very  glad  and  thankful  when  it  is  done. 
Ha  was  a  wise  man  in  former  days  who  said  (let  me 
translate  his  words  into  my  pecuUar  idiom),  "  I  call  no 
man  happy  before  he  has  got  round  the  circle  C."  Aiid 
desponding  times  will  come  to  all,  in  which  they  will 
think  of  the  innumerable  sad  possibilities  which  liang 
over  them,  and  the  sorrowful  certauities  which  are  daily 
drawing  nearer,  and  the  dangers  of  getting  off  the  line 
altogether  and  going  to  destruction.  I  look  ahead, 
many  a  one  will  soraetitiies  be  disposed  to  say,  and 
there  are  many,  many  things  which  I  know  may  go 
wrong.  O,  I  would  be  thankful  if  I  and  those  dear  to 
me  were  safely  round  the  circle  C,  and  had  got  safely 
to  the  point  B ;  even  though  some  people  shrink  from 
that  latter  point  as  long  as  they  possibly  can. 

Of  course,  this  is  a  gloomy  kind  of  view  ;  but  such 
views  will  sometimes  push  themselves  upon  one,  and 
will  not  be  put  off.  I  hope  it  will  go  away  shortly.  It 
will  go  away  all  the  sooner  for  my  having  made  you 
partaker  of  it.  I  have  in  my  mind  an  abstract  eidolon, 
an  image  of  the  reader  of  this  page,  who  is  my  con- 
fidential friend.  To  him  I  have  told  very  many  things 
which  I  have  hardly  ever  told  to  any  one  else.  And  I 
want  him  to  take  his  share  of  this  vexatious  view  about 
the  circle  C,  that  so  it  may  lie  lighter  on  myself  All 
this  life,  of  push,  stru.crgle,.  privation,  trickery,  getting 
on,  failure ;  all  this  life,  in  which  one  man  becomes 
chancellor,  and  another  prime  minister,  and  another  a 
weary    careworn    drudge,   and    another   a   self-satisfied 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  225 

Dlockhead,  and  another  a  pooi-  needlewoman  laboring 
eighteen  hours  a  day  for  a  few  pence  ;  all  this  life,  of 
kings  and  priests  and  statesmen,  of  cripples  and  beggars, 
of  joyful  hearts  and  sorrowful  hearts,  of  scheming  and 
working,  as  if  there  were  no  other  world,  —  is  no  more 
than  our  getting  round  the  circle  C.  We  are  cast  on 
that  incline  that  begins  from  A,  at  our  birth  ;  and  our 
business  is  to  get  safely  to  B, 

Every  day  that  dawns  upon  many  people  is  a  little 
circle  C.  In  the  morning  they  are  aware  that  various 
things  may  go  wrong  in  it ;  and  of  course  they  do  not 
know  what  the  day  may  bring  forth.  We  are  environed 
by  many  unknown  dangers  ;  and  any  day  we  may  say 
the  hasty  word,  or  do  the  foolish  thing,  which  may  in- 
volve us  in  great  trouble.  Even  the  most  sagacious 
and  prudent  man  may  some  day  be  taken  off  his  guard. 
And  the  accidents  which  may  befall  us  are  quite  in- 
numerable. It  is  a  wonder  we  have  got  on  so  far 
in  life  as  we  have,  so  little  battered  by  the  chances  of 
the  way.  You  know  some  one  who  went  out  from  his 
own  home  on  a  frosty  da}-,  and  in  three  minutes  came 
back  pale  and  fainting,  having  fallen  and  fractured  his 
wrist.  The  pain  was  great ;  and  the  seclusion  from 
work  was  absolute  for  a  while.  What  could  we  do  if 
the  like  luippened  to  us  ?  Some  one  else  thought 
but  one  step  of  a  stair  remained  lor  him  to  descend, 
while  in  fact  there  were  two  ;  and  the  consequences 
of  that  misapprehension  remained  with  liim  painlully  to 
the  end  of  his  lile.  And  thus,  looking  back  on  la-t  year, 
one  feels  it  was  a  most  protracted  and  perilous  circle  C. 
It  was  made  up  of  days,  each  of  which  might  have 
brought  we  know  not  wluit  wiih  it.  We  have  got 
10*  o 


226  CONCKUNIXG   NEKDLESS   FEARS. 

safely  round  that  circle,  indeed  ;  but  at  the  beginning 
we  were  not  sure  that  we  should.  If  we  could  have  had 
such  an  assurance  it  would  have  spared  us  many  fears. 
These  fears  are  for  the  most  part  forgot  when  we  look 
back,  and  feel  how  needless  tliey  were.  But  they  were 
very  real  things  at  the  time  they  were  felt,  and  they 
were  a  terrible  drawback  from  the  pleasures  of  anticipa- 
tion and  of  actual  fact.  When  you  look  back  on  a  few 
weeks  or  months  of  foreign  travel,  the  whole  thing  has 
a  fixed  and  certain  look,  —  the  thing  that  has  been  is  a 
thing  for  ever.  liut  what  a  shiiting  tract  of  shadows  it 
was  when  you  were  looking  forward  to  it,  and  a  tract 
not  without  several  alarming  spectres  vaguely  stalking 
about  over  it.  Now  we  know  that  we  got  safely  back, 
but  when  we  started  we  did  not  know  that  we  should. 
It  was  like  leaving  the  point  A,  and  flying  round  the 
circle  C  ;  whereas  now  we  have  reached  the  point  B, 
and  we  have  forgot  our  emotions  in  actually  flying  round 
the  circle. 

Two  or  three  days  ago,  three  friends  of  the  writer  sailed 
from  Southampton,  on  their  way  to  Egypt  and  the  Holy 
Land.  They  are  to  be  away  three  months.  They  are 
experienced  travellers,  and  have  seen  very  many  cities 
and  men,  and  doubtless  tliey  starteil  with  no  feelings  but 
those  of  pleasurable  anticipation.  When  I  heard  of 
their  going  my  first  feeling  was  one  of  envy.  How  de- 
lightful to  cast  aside  all  this  perpetual  toil  that  overtasks 
one's  strength,  and  keeps  one  ever  on  the  stretch,  and 
have  three  months  for  the  mind  to  regain  its  elasticity, 
much  diminished  by  its  being  kept  always  bent!  And 
then,  what  strange,  unlelt  moods  of  thought  and  feeling 
one  would  experience  when  surrounded  by  the  scenes 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS   FEARS.  227 

and  associations  of  ^hose  tracts  of  this  world  !  You 
would  accumulate  store  of  new  ideas  and  remembrances  ; 
and  in  the  first  sermons  and  essa\s  you  would  write 
after  returning,  you  would  be  (in  a  moral  sense)  curvet- 
ing about  like  a  young  colt  in  a  pasture,  and  not  plod- 
ding like  an  old  steady  hack  along  the  highway  !  But 
when  I  tried  to  put  myself  (in  fancy)  in  the  place  of  my 
friends ;  when  I  thought  of  the  long,  unknown  way,  and 
of  the  unsettled  tribes  of  men  ;  when  I  thought  of  Mr. 
Buckle  at  Damascus ;  when  I  thought  of  possible  fevers 
and  of  most  certain  bugs  ;  when  I  thought  how  when 
human  beings  go  to  the  East  for  three  months,  they 
may  chance  never  to  come  back  at  all,  —  then  to  a  quiet, 
stay-at-home  person,  who  has  seen  hardly  anything,  the 
circle  C  appeared  invested  with  many  grounds  of  alarm; 
and  I  was  reconciled  to  the  fact  that  I  was  not  stepping 
on  board  the  Ellora  amid  a  great  roar  of  escaping  steam, 
nor  going  down  to  the  choky  little  bertli,  and  surveying 
my  belongings  there.  Thus  did  I  repress  the  rising 
envy  in  my  breast.  But  when  my  friends  come  back 
again,  portentous  images  with  huge  beards ;  when  they 
have  made  the  Nile,  and  Olivet,  and  Gethsemane,  and 
the  Dead  Sea,  a  possession  lor  as  long  as  memory  serves 
them  ;  when  they  have  got  fairly  and  triumphantly 
round  the  circle  C,  and  liappily  reached  the  point  of 
safety  B,  —  then,  I  fear,  the  envious  feeling  will  recur. 

O,  if  we  could  but  get  quit  of  our  needless  fears  !  Of 
those  fears  (that  is)  which  take  so  much  from  tlie  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  and  which  the  result  proves  to  have  been 
quite  groundless ! 

Some  folk,  with  very  robust  nervous  systems,   prob- 


228  CONCERNING  NbEDLKSS   FEARS. 

ably  know  but  little  of  these.  !§ut  from  large  experi- 
ence of  my  fellow-creiitures,  rich  and  poor,  and  from  care- 
ful investigation  of  their  features,  I  begin  to  conclude 
that  such  i'ears  are  very  common  thing;;.  Most  middle- 
aged  faces  have  an  anxious  look.  You  can  see,  even 
when  they  bear  a  cheerful  expression,  that  they  are 
capable  in  a  moment  of  taking  that  painful  aspect  of 
anxiety  and  apprehension.  I  do  not  mean  by  fear  the 
indulgence  of  physical  cowardice  ;  happily  few  of  the 
race  that  inhabits  Britain  will,  on  emergency,  prove  de- 
ficient in  physical  pluck.  But  I  mean  that  most  middle- 
aged  people,  who  have  children,  are  somewhat  cowed  by 
the  unknown  Future  ;  and  that  the  too  ready  imagina- 
tion can  picture  out  a  hundred  things  that  may  go 
wrong.  Aiixius  vixi,  wrote  the  man  in  the  Middle 
Ages ;  and  anxious  we  live  yet,  and  probably  always 
will  live,  in  this  world. 

If  you  go  out  in  the  dark  expecting  to  see  a  ghost,  you 
will  very  likely  take  a  wliite  sheet  hung  on  a  hedge  for 
one.  And  even  so,  people  in  their  feverish  state  of  appre- 
hension sometimes  are  dreadfully  frightened  by  things 
which  in  a  calmer  mood  they  would  discern  had  nothing 
alarming  about  tlicm.  Every  one  is  sharp  enough  to  see 
this  in  the  case  of  otlicr  people.  You  will  find  a  man  who 
will  say  to  you,  "  What  a  goose  Smith  is  to  worry  iiim- 
self  about  tiiat  tabh^-cloth  on  the  holly,  and  declare  it  is 
an  apparition,  and  tliat  it  has  bad  news  for  him";  and 
in  a  few  minutes  you  will  be  aware  that  the  man  who 
says  all  tliis  is  furtively  looking  over  his  shoulder  at 
a  wiiite  donkey  leeding  under  a  thick  hedge,  and  dread- 
ing that  it  is  a  polar  bear  about  to  devour  him. 

It  is  curious  to  think  how  often  these  needless  fears, 


CONCERNING   NEEDLESS   FEARS.  229 

which  cause  so  much  unnecessary  anxiety  and  misery, 
are  the  result  of  pure  miscalculation,  and  this  miscalcu- 
lation not  made  in  a  hurry,  but  deliberately.  I  have  a 
friend  who  told  me  this :  —  When  he  was  married,  he 
had  exactly  £  500  a  year,  and  no  means  of  adding  to 
that  income.  So  as  he  could  not  increase  his  income, 
his  business  was  to  keep  down  his  expenditure  below  it. 
But  neither  he  nor  his  wife  knew  much  about  household 
management ;  and  (as  he  afterwai-ds  found)  he  was  a 
good  deal  victimized  by  his  sejvants.  After  doing  all 
he  could  to  economize,  he  found,  at  the  end  of  the  third 
month  of  his  financial  year,  that  he  had  spent  exactly 
£  125.  Four  times  £  125,  he  calculated,  made  £  600  a 
year,  which  was  just  £  100  more  than  he  had  got ;  so  the 
debtor's  prison  appeared  to  loom  in  view,  or  some  total 
change  in  his  mode  of  life,  which  it  seemed  almost  im- 
possible for  him  to  make,  without  very  painful  circum- 
stances ;  and,  for  weeks,  the  thought  almost  drove  him 
distracted.  Day  and  night  it  never  was  absent.  At 
length,  one  day,  brooding  over  his  prospects,  he  sud- 
denly discovered  that  four  times  125  make  just  500,  and 
not  600  ;  so  that  all  his  fears  were  gi-oundless.  He  was 
relieved,  he  told  me ;  but  somehow  his  heart  had  been 
so  burdened  and  sunk  by  those  anxious  weeks,  that 
though  the  cause  of  anxiety  was  removed,  it  was  a  long 
time  before  it  seemed  to  recover  its  spring. 

Now  my  friend  had  all  his  wits  about  him.  There 
was  nothing  whatever  of  that  causeless  delusion  which 
shades  off  into  insanity.  But  somehow  he  thought  that 
125  X  4  =  GOO  ;  and  his  conclusion  was  that  ruin 
stared  him  in  the  face. 

I  hpve  hoard  of  a  moio  touching  case.      A  certain 


230  CONCKRNING  NEEDLESS  FEAhS. 

man  brouglit  to  a  friend  a  sum  of  money,  rather  less 
than  a  liundred  pounds,  and  asked  the  friend  to  keep  it 
for  him.  He  said  it  was  all  he  had  in  the  world,  and 
that  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  to  do  when  it  was 
gone.  lie  had  been  a  quite  rich  man  ;  but  one  of  those 
swindling  institutions  whose  directors  ought  to  be  hung, 
and  are  not,  had  involved  him  in  great  money  responsi- 
bilities by  its  downfall.  In  a  few  days  after  leaving  the 
money  with  his  friend,  the  poor  man  committed  suicide. 
Then  his  affairs  were  examined  by  competent  persons ; 
and  it  was  found  that  after  meeting  all  possible  lia- 
bilities, he  had  been  worth  several  hundreds  a  year. 
But  the  poor  fellow  had  miscalculated  ;  and  here  was 
the  tragic  consequence. 

No  doubt,  he  had  been  so  terribly  apprehensive,  that 
he  had  been  afraid  to  make  a  thorough  examination  as 
to  how  his  affairs  stood.  Human  beings  often  undergo 
much  needless  fear,  because  they  are  afraid  to  search 
out  all  the  facts.  For  fear  of  finding  the  fact  worse 
than  they  fear,  they  often  fear  what  is  much  woi'se  than 
the  fact.  Tliey  go  on  through  life  thinking  they  have 
ceen  a  ghost,  and  miserable  in  the  thought ;  whereas,  if 
they  had  but  screwed  their  courage  to  the  point  of  ex- 
amining, they  would  have  found  it  was  no  more  than  a 
table-cloth  drying  upon  a  line  between  two  poles.  O, 
that  we  could  all,  forever,  get  rid  of  this  moral  coward- 
ice !  If  you  think  there  is  something  the  matter  with 
your  heart,  go  to  the  doctor  and  let  him  examine. 
Probably  there  is  nothing  earthly  wrong.  And  even  if 
there  be,  it  is  better  to  know  the  worst  than  live  on 
week  after  week  in  a  vague,  wretched  fear.  Let  us  do 
the  like  with  our  affairs.     Let  us  do  the  like  with  our 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS   FEaRS.  2?1 

religious  difficulties,  with  our  theological  perploxities. 
The  very  worst  thing  you  can  do  is  to  lock  the  closet 
door  when  you  thinlv  probably  there  is  a  skeleton  within. 
Fling  it  wide  open  ;  search  with  a  paralhn  lamp  into 
every  corner.  A  hundred  to  one,  there  is  no  skeleton 
there  at  all.  But  fi'om  youth  to  age,  we  must  be  bat- 
tling with  the  dastardly  tendency  to  walk  away  from  the 
white  donkey  in  the  shadow,  which  we  ought  to  walk 
up  to.  I  have  seen  a  little  child,  who  had  cut  her  finger, 
entreat  that  it  might  just  be  tied  up,  without  ever  being 
looked  at ;  she  was  afraid  to  look  at  it.  But  when  it 
was  looked  at,  and  washed  and  sorted,  she  saw  how  little 
a  thing  it  was  fur  all  the  blood  that  came  from  it ;  and 
about  nine-tenths  uf  her  i'ear  fled  away. 

You  have  heard  of  Mr.  Elwes,  the  wealthy  miser, 
frightening  a  guest  by  walking  into  his  bedroom  during 
the  niglit,  and  saying,  "  Sir,  I  have  just  been  robbed  of 
seven  guineas  and  a  half,  which  was  all  I  had  in  the 
world ! "  Here,  of  course,  we  enter  the  domain  of 
proper  insanity.  For  the  fears  which  a  man  of  vast 
fortune  has  lest  he  may  die  in  the  workhouse  belong 
essentially  to  the  same  class  with  those  of  the  man  who 
thinks  he  is  glass,  and  that  if  he  falls  he  will  break ;  or 
who  thinks  he  is  butter,  and  if  he  goes  near  the  fire  he 
will  melt.  And  thougli  all  needless  fears  are  morbid 
tilings,  which  the  healthy  mind  would  shake  off,  yet 
there  is  a  vast  distance  between  the  morbid  ajiprehen- 
sions  and  the  morbid  depressions  of  the  practically  sane 
man,  and  the  phenomena  of  the  mind  wliich  is  truly 
insane. 

The  truth  seems  to  be,  that  some  people  must  have  a 


232  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

certain  amount  of  misery  ;  and  it  will  attach  itself  to 
any  peg.  If  not  to  this,  then  to  another ;  but  the 
misery  is  due.  And  I  defy  3-ou  l>y  any  means  to  lift 
such  people  above  the  slough  of  their  apprehensions. 
As  you  remove  eacli  cause  of  alarm,  they  will  fix  upon 
another.  First,  they  fear  that  their  means  will  not  carry 
them  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  That  fear  proves 
groundless.  Next  they  fear  that  though  their  present 
income  is  ample,  somehow  it  will  fall  off.  That  fear 
proves  groundless.  Next,  they  are  in  dread  as  to  the 
provision  for  their  children ;  and  here,  doubtless,  most 
men  can  find  a  cause  of  anxiety  that  will  last  them 
through  all  their  life.  But  it  is  their  nature  to  be 
always  imagining  something  horrible.  Tiiey  live  in 
dread  that  they  may  quarrel  with  some  friend,  or  that 
some  general  crash  will  come  some  day,  they  don't  know 
how.  And  if  all  other  causes  of  apprehension  were 
absolutely  removed,  they  would  make  themselves 
wretched  to  a  suitable  degree  by  feaiing  lest  an  earth- 
quake should  swallow  up  (ireat  Britain,  or  that  Dr. 
Cumming's  calculations  as  to  the  end  of  the  world  may 
prove  true.  In  short,  if  a  human  being  be  of  a  nervous, 
anxious  temperament,  it  is  as  certain  that  such  a  human 
being  will  find  some  peg  to  hang  his  fears  upon,  as  it  is 
that  a  man,  who  is  the  possessor  of  a  hat,  will  find 
something,  wherever  he  goes,  to  hang  it  or  lay  it  upon. 
All  this  seems  to  be  esj)ecially  true  in  the  case  of 
people  who  have  been  heavily  tried  in  youth.  Human 
beings  may  be  subjected  to  a  treatment  in  their  early 
years  that  scem.s  to  take  the  hopeful  spring  out  of  them. 
Unless  where  there  is  very  unusual  stamina  of  mind  and 
body,  they  never  quite  get  over  it.     You  may  damage  a 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS   FEARS.  233 

man  so  that  he  will  never  quite  get  over  it,  —  you  may 
give  the  youthful  mind  a  wrench  whose  evil  effect  will 
cling  to  it  througli  all  life.  There  are  things  in  the 
moral  world  which  are  like  an  injury  to  the  spine,  — ■ 
never  recovered  from  ;  hut  that  grows  and  strengthens 
with  the  man's  growth  and  strength ;  and  no  good  for- 
tune, no  hap2:»iness  coming  afterwards,  can  ever  make 
amends.  The  evil  has  been  done,  and  it  cannot  be 
undone. 

You  have  beheld  a  horse,  no  more  than  six  years  of 
age,  but  which  is  dull  and  spiritless,  and  its  forelegs 
somewhat  bent  and  shaky.  Why  are  these  things  so  ? 
It  has  easy  work  now,  good  feeding,  kind  usage.  Yes, 
but  it  was  driven  when  too  young.  It  was  set  to  hard 
work  then,  and  the  creature  never  has  got  over  it  and 
never  will.  It  is  too  late  for  any  kindness  now  to  make 
up  for  the  mischief  done  at  three  years  old. 

I  am  firmly  persuaded  it  is  so  with  many  human  be- 
ings. They  had  an  unhappy  home  as  little  boy.^,  the 
love  of  the  beautiful  in  nature  and  art  was  starved  out 
in  them.  They  were  committed  to  the  care  of  a  self- 
conceited  person,  utterly  devoid  of  common  sense.  All 
mirth  was  forbidden  as  something  sinful.  Life  was  made 
hard  and  savorless.  They  grew  up  under  a  bitter  sense 
of  injustice  and  oppression,  and  with  the  conviction  that 
they  were  hopelessly  misunderstood.  Or,  later,  the 
weight  of  care  came  down  upon  them  very  heavily. 
There  are  many  people  who,  for  most  of  the  years  be- 
tween twenty  and  thirty,  never  know  what  a  light  heart 
is.  And  by  such  things  as  these  the  spring  of  the  spirit 
is  broken.  A  dogged  steadfastness  of  purpose  may  re- 
main, but  the  elasticity  is  gone.     The  writer  has  no 


234  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

knowledge  of  IMr.  Thackeray's  character  and  career  ex- 
cept fi'om  the  accounts  of  these  which  Ijave  been  pub- 
lished since  his  death  by  some  who  knew  him  well.  But 
it  is  strongly  inij)ressed  on  one  in  reading  these,  that, 
amid  all  the  success  and  fame  and  love  of  his  latter  years, 
a  certain  tone  of  melancholy  remained,  testifying  that 
former  days  of  unappreciated  toil,  of  care,  and  anxiety, 
had  left  a  trace  that  never  could  go.  It  is  only  of 
a  limited  and  exceptional  order  of  troubles  that  the 
memorable  words  can  be  spoken  with  any  shade  of 
truth  :  Forsan  et  hcec  ollm  meminisse  juvabit.  *  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  memory  of  pure  misery  can  ever  be 
other  than  a  miserable  thing. 

If  this  were  a  sermon,  I  should  now  go  on  to  set 
forth,  at  full  length,  what  I  esteem  to  be  the  best  and 
worthiest  means  of  getting  free  from  those  needless 
fears  of  which  we  have  been  thinking.  But  in  this 
essay,  I  pass  these  briefly  by  for  the  present ;  and  pro- 
ceed to  suggest  a  lesser  cure  for  needless  anxiety,  which 
is  not  without  its  wholesome  effect  on  some  minds. 

I  believe  that  when  you  are  worrying  yourself  by 
imagining  all  kinds  of  evils  as  likely  to  befall  you,  it 
will  do  you  a  great  deal  of  good  to  be  allowed  to  see 
something  of  other  pooi)le  who  are  always  expecting 
something  awful  to  happen,  and  with  a  morbid  inge- 
nuity devising  ways  of  making  themselves  miserable. 
You  will  discern  how  ridiculous  such  people  look ;  how 
irritating  they  are ;  how,  so  far  from  exciting  sympathy, 
they  excite  indignation.  The  Spartans  were  right  to 
make  their  slaves  drunk,  and  thus  to  cure  their  chil- 
dren of  the  least  tendency  to  the  vice  of  drunkenness, 
by  letting  them  see  how  ugly  it  looks  in  another.     I 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  235 

request  Mr.  Snarling  to  take  notice,  that  when  I  say  the 
Spartans  were  right  in  doing  this,  I  don't  mean  to  say 
that  they  did  an  act  which  is  in  a  moral  sense  to  be 
commended  or  justified.  AH  I  mean  is,  that  they  took 
a  very  effectual  means  to  compass  the  end  they  had  in 
view.  You  never  feel  the  badness  of  your  own  faults 
so  keenly  as  when  you  see  them  carried  a  little  further 
in  somebody  else.  And  so  a  human  being,  naturally 
very  nervous  and  evil-foreboding,  is  corrected,  when  he 
sees  how  absurd  it  looks  in  another.  My  friend  Jones 
told  me,  that,  after  several  months  of  extremely  hard 
head-work,  which  had  lowered  his  nervous  system,  he 
found  himself  getting  into  a  way  of  vaguely  dreading 
what  might  come  next,  and  of  receiving  his  letters  in 
the  morning  Avith  many  anticipations  of  evil.  But  hap- 
pily a  friend  came  to  visit  him,  who  carried  all  this 
about  a  hundred  degrees  further,  who  had  come  through 
all  his  life  expecting  at  least  an  earthquake  daily,  if  not 
the  end  of  the  world.  And  Jones  was  set  right.  In 
the  words  of  Wordsworth,  "  lie  looked  upon  him,  and 
was  calmed  and  cheered."  Jones  saw  how  like  a  fool 
his  friend  seemed ;  and  there  came  a  healtliy  reaction ; 
and  he  opened  his  letter-box  bravely  every  morning, 
and  was  all  right  again.  Yes,  let  us  see  the  Helot 
drunk,  and  it  will  teach  us  to  keep  sober.  My  friend 
Gray  told  me  that  for  some  little  space  he  felt  a  grow- 
ing tendency  to  scrubbiness  in  money  matters.  But 
having  witnessed  pinching  and  paring  (without  the  least 
need  for  them)  carried  to  a  transcendent  degree  by 
some  one  else,  the  very  name  of  economy  was  made  to 
stink  in  his  nostrils ;  and  he  felt  a  mad  desire  to  pitch 
half-crowns   about  the  streets   wherever  he  went.     In 


23G  CONX'ERNING  NEEDLESS   FEARS. 

this  cnse  the  reaciion  went  too  far ;  but  in  a  week  or 
two  Gray  came  back  to  the  middle  course,  whicli  is  tlie 
safest  and  best. 

But,  after  all,  the  riglit  and  true  way  of  escaping  from 
what  Dr.  Newman  has  so  happily  called  "care's  un- 
thankful gloom,"  and  of  casting  off  needless  fears,  lies 
in  a  different  direction  altogether.  It  was  wise  advice 
of  Sidney  Smith,  when  he  said  that  those  who  desire  to 
go  hopefully  and  cheerfully  through  their  work  in  this 
life  should  "  take  short  views  "  ;  not  plan  too  far  ahead  ; 
take  the  present  bles-ing  and  be  thankful  for  it.  It  was 
indeed  the  best  of  all  possible  advice ;  for  it  was  but  a 
repetition,  in  another  form,  of  the  counsel  of  the  Kind- 
est and  Wisest,  "  Take,  therefore,  no  thought  for  the 
morrow,  for  the  morrow  shall  take  thought  for  the 
things  of  itself:  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof."  There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  true 
origin  of  all  these  forebodings  of  evil  is  our  lack  of  trust 
in  God.  We  all  bear  a  far  greater  burden  of  anxiety 
than  we  need  bear,  just  because  we  will  try  to  bear  our 
burden  for  ourselves,  instead  of  casting  it  on  a  stronger' 
arm.  We  try  to  provide  for  our  children  and  ourselves, 
forgetting  the  sure  promise  to  all  humble  Christian  peo- 
ple, that  "  the  Lord  will  provide."  And  when  we  seek 
to  cast  off  our  load  of  care  by  the  help  of  those  comfort- 
able words  of  Holy  Scripture  which  invite  us  to  trust 
everything  to  God,  we  try  too  much  to  reason  our.-elvea 
into  the  assurance  that  we  need  not  be  so  care-laden  as 
we  are.  We  forget  that  the  only  way  in  which  it  is  pos- 
sible for  us  to  believe  these  words  in  our  heart,  and  to 
take  the  comfort  of  them,  is  by  heartily  asking  God  that 
they   may   be   carried   iiome  to  us  with  the  irresistible 


COXCEKNLN'G   NEEDLESS    FEARS.  237 

demonstration  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  How  tlie  circle  C 
would  lose  its  feiiis,  if  we  did  but  feel,  by  His  gracious 
teaching,  that  it  is  the  way  which  God  designed  for  us, 
and  that  He  will  "  keep  us  in  all  our  ways  ! "  When- 
ever I  see  man  or  woman,  early  old  with  anxiety,  and 
with  a  face  deeply  lined  with  care,  I  think  of  certain 
words  which  deserve  infinitely  better  than  to  be  printed 
in  letters  of  gold,  and  I  wish  that  such  a  one,  and  that 
all  I  care  for,  were  numbered  among  the  people  who 
have  a  right  to  take  these  words  for  their  own:  — 

"  Be  careful  for  nothing ;  but  in  everything,  by  prayer 
and  supplication,  with  thanksgiving,  let  your  requests  be 
made  known  unto  God.  And  the  peace  of  God,  which 
passeth  all  understanding,  shall  keep  your  hearts  and 
minds  through  Christ  Jesus." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


BEATEN, 


0  yon  know  this  peculiar  feeling?     I  speak 

to  men  in  middle  age. 

To  be  beaiing  up  as  manfully  as  you  can ; 

putting  a  good  face  on  things  ;  trying  to  per- 
suade yourself  that  you  have  done  very  fairly  in  life 
after  all ;  and  all  of  a  sudden  to  feel  that  merciful  self- 
deception  fail  you,  and  just  to  break  down;  to  own  how 
bitterly  beaten  and  disappointed  you  are,  and  what  a  sad 
and  wretched  failure  you  Iiave  made  of  life? 

There  is  no  one  in  th(;  world  we  all  try  so  hard  to 
cheat  and  delude  as  ourself.  IIow  we  hoodwink  that 
individual,  and  try  lo  make  him  look  at  tilings  through 
rose-colored  spectacles !  Like  the  poor  little  girl  in 
Mr.  Dickens's  touching  story,  we  mnke  believe  very 
much.  But  sometimes  we  are  not  able  to  make  believe. 
The  illusion  goes.  The  bare,  unvarnished  truth  forces 
itself  upon  us.  and  we  see  what  miserable  little  wretches 
we  are  ;  how  poor  and  petty  are  our  ends  in  life,  and 
what  a  dull  weary  round  it  all  is.  You  remember  the 
poor  old  half-pny  ollicer,  of  whom  Charles  Lamb  tells 
us.     He  was  not  (o  be  disillusioned.     He  asked  you  to 


BEATEN.  239 

hand  him  the  silver  sugar-tongs  in  so  confident  a  tone, 
that  though  your  eyes  testified  that  it  was  but  a  tea- 
spoon, and  that  of  Britannia  metal,  a  certain  spell  was 
cast  over  your  mind.  But  rely  on  it,  though  that  half- 
starved  veteran  kept  up  in  this  way  before  people,  he 
would  often  break  down  when  he  was  alone.  It  would 
suddenly  rush  upon  him  wiiat  a  wretched  old  humbug 
he  was. 

Is  it  sometimes  so  with  all  of  us  ?  "We  are  none  of 
us  half-satisfied  with  ourselves.  We  know  we  are  poor 
creatures,  thougli  we  try  to  persuade  ourselves  that  we 
are  tolerably  good.  At  least,  if  we  have  any  sense,  this 
is  so.  Yet  I  greatly  envied  a  man  whom  I  passed  in 
the  street  yesterday ;  a  stranger,  a  middle-aged  person. 
His  nose  was  elevated  in  the  air ;  he  had  a  supercilious 
demeanor,  expressive  of  superiority  to  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, and  contempt  for  them.  Perhaps  he  was  a 
prince,  and  so  entitled  to  look  down  on  ordinary  folk. 
Perhaps  he  was  a  bagman.  The  few  princes  I  have 
ever  seen  had  notliiiig  of  liis  uplifted  aspect.  But  what 
a  fine  thing  it  would  be  to  be  able  always  to  delude 
yourself  with  the  belief  that  you  are  a  great  and  impor- 
tant person  ;  to  be  always  quite  satisfied  with  yourself 
and  your  position.  There  are  people  Avho,  while  repeat- 
ing certain  words  in  the  litany,  feel  as  if  it  was  a  mere 
form,  signifying  notliing,  to  call  themselves  miserable  sin- 
ners. There  are  some  who  say  these  words  sorrowfully 
from  their  very  heart,  feeling  that  they  express  God's 
truth.  They  know  what  weak,  silly,  sinful  beings  they 
are;  they  know  what  a  poor  thing  they  have  made  of 
life,  with  all  their  hard  work,  and  all  their  planning  and 
scheming.      In    fact,    they    feel    beaten,    disappointed, 


240  BEATEN. 

down.  The  liigli  hopes  with  which  they  started  are 
blighted  ;  were  bh'yhted  long  ago.  They  think,  with  a 
bitter  laugli,  of  their  early  dreams  of  eminence,  of  suc- 
cess, of  happiness ;  and  sometimes,  after  liolding  up  for 
a  while  as  well  as  they  could,  they  feel  they  can  do  it 
no  longer.  Their  heart  fails  them.  They  sit  down  and 
give  up  altogether.  Great  men  and  good  men  have 
done  it.  It  is  a  comfort  to  many  a  poor  fellow  to  think 
of  Elijah,  beaten  and  sick  at  heart,  sitting  down  under  a 
scrubby  bush  at  evening  far  in  the  bare  desert,  and  feel- 
ing there  was  no  more  left,  and  that  he  could  bear  no 
more.     Thank  God  that  the  verse  is  in  the  Bible. 

"  But  he  himself  went  a  day's  journey  into  the  wilder- 
ness, and  came  and  sat  down  under  a  juniper-tree  ;  and 
he  requested  for  himself  that  he  might  die,  and  said, 
It  is  enougli :  now,  O  Lord,  take  away  my  life,  for  I 
am  not  better  than  my  fathers." 

1  thought  of  Elijah  in  the  wilderness  the  other  night. 
I  saw  the  great  prophet  again.  For  human  nature  is 
the  same  in  a  great  prophet  as  in  a  poor  little  hungry 
boy. 

At  nine  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening,  I  heard  pitiful, 
subdued  sobs  and  crying  outside.  I  know  the  kind  of 
thing  that  means  some  one  fairly  beaten  :  not  angry, 
not  l)itter ;  smashed.  I  opened  the  front  door,  and  found 
a  litlli!  boy,  ten  years  old,  sitting  on  the  steps,  crying. 
1  asked  him  what  was  the  matter.  I  see  the  thin,  white, 
hungry,  dirty  little  iace.  He  would  have  slunk  away, 
if  he  could :  he  plainly  thought  liis  case  beyond  all 
mending.  But  I  brought  him  in,  and  set  liim  on  a  chair 
in  the  lobby,  and  he  told  his  story.  He  had  a  large 
bundle  of  sticks  in  a  ragged  sack,  —  firewood.     At  tliree 


BEATEN.  241 

o'clock  that  afternoon,  he  had  come  out  to  sell  them. 
Ilis  mother  was  a  poor  washerwoman,  in  the  most 
wretched  part  of  the  town :  his  father  was  killed  a 
fortnight  ago  by  falling  from  a  scaffold.  He  had  walked 
a  long  way  through  the  streets  :  about  three  miles.  He 
had  tried  all  the  afternoon  to  sell  his  sticks,  but  had 
sold  only  a  halfpenny  worth.  He  was  lame,  poor  little 
man,  from  a  sore  leg,  but  managed  to  carry  his  heavy 
load.  But  at  last,  going  down  some  poor  area  stair  in 
the  dark,  he  fell  down  a  whole  flight  of  steps,  and  hurt 
his  sore  leg  so  that  he  could  not  walk,  and  also  got  a 
great  cut  on  the  forehead.  He  had  got  just  the  half- 
penny for  his  poor  mother :  he  had  been  going  about 
wilh  his  burden  for  six  hours,  with  nothing  to  eat.  But 
he  turned  his  face  homewards,  carrying  his  sticks,  and 
struggled  on  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  then  he 
broke  down.  He  could  go  no  farther.  In  the  dark 
cold  night  he  sat  down  and  cried.  It  was  not  the  cry- 
ing of  one  who  hoped  to  attract  attention  :  it  was  the 
crying  of  flat  despair. 

The  first  thing  I  did  (which  did  not  take  a  moment) 
was  to  thank  God  that  my  door-steps  had  been  his  juni- 
per-tx'ee.  Then  I  remembered  that  the  first  thing  God 
did  when  Elijah  broke  down  was  to  give  him  something 
to  eat.  Yes,  it  is  a  great  thing  to  keep  up  physical 
nature.  And  the  little  man  had  had  no  food  since  three 
o'clock  till  nine.  So  there  came,  brought  by  kind  hands 
(not  mine),  several  great  slices  of  bread  and  butter 
(jam  even  was  added),  and  a  cup  of  warm  tea.  The 
spirit  began  to  come  a  little  into  the  child  ;  and  he 
thought  he  could  manage  to  get  home,  if  we  would  let 
him  leave  his  sticks  till  Monday.  We  asked  him  what 
II  p 


242-  BEATEN. 

he  would  have  got  for  his  sticks  if  he  had  sold  them  all : 
ninepence.  Under  tlie  circumstances,  it  appeared  that 
a  profit  of  ft  hundi'cd  per  cent  was  not  exorbitant,  so  he 
received  eighteen  pence,  which  he  stowed  away  some- 
where in  his  rags,  and  the  sack  went  away,  and  re- 
turned with  all  the  sticks  emptied  out.  Finally,  an  old 
gray  coat  of  rough  tweed  came,  and  was  put  upon  the 
little  boy,  and  carefully  buttoned,  forming  a  capital  great 
coat.  And  forasmuch  as  his  trowsers  were  most  unusu- 
ally ragged,  a  pair  of  such  appeared,  and  being  wrapped 
up  were  placed  in  tlio  sack  along  with  a  good  deal  of 
bread  and  butter.  How  the  heart  of  the  child  had  by 
this  time  revived !  He  thought  he  could  go  home 
nicely.  And  having  very  briefly  asked  the  Father  of 
the  fatherless  to  care  for  him,  T  behold  him  limp  away 
in  the  dark.  All  lliis  is  supremely  little  to  talk  about. 
But  it  was  quite  a  different  thing  to  see.  To  look  at 
the  poor  starved  little  face,  and  the  dirty  hand  like  a 
claw;  to  think  of  ten  years  old;  to  think  of  one's  own 
children  in  their  warm  beds ;  to  think  what  all  this  would 
have  been  to  one's  self  as  a  little  child.  0,  if  I  had  a 
four-leaved  shamrock,  what  a  turn-over  there  should  be 
in  this  world  ! 

When  the  little  man  went  away,  I  came  back  to  my 
work.  I  took  up  my  pen,  and  tried  to  write,  but  I  could 
not.  I  thought  I  saw  many  human  beings  besides 
Elijah  in  the  case  of  that  child.  I  tried  to  enter  into 
the  feeling  (it  was  oidy  too  easy)  of  that  poor  little 
tiling  in  his  utter  despair.  It  was  sad  enough  to  carry 
about  the  heavy  bundle  hour  after  hour,  and  to  sell  only 
the  halfpenny  worth.  But  it  was  dreadful,  after  tum- 
bling down  the  stair,  to  find  he  was  not  able  to  walk ; 


BEATEN.  243 

and  still  to  be  struggling  to  carry  back  bis  load  to  his 
bare  home,  which  was  two  miles  distant  from  this  spot. 
And  at  last  to  sit  down  in  misery  on  the  step  in  the 
dark  night,  stunned.  He  would  have  been  quite  happy 
if  he  had  got  ninepence,  God  help  him.  When  I  was  a 
boy,  I  remember  how  a  certain  pereon  who  embittered 
my  life  in  those  days  was  wont  to  say,  as  though  it 
summed  up  all  the  virtues,  that  such  a  person  was  a 
man  who  looked  at  both  sides  of  a  shilling  before  spend- 
ing it.  It  is  such  a  sight  as  the  little  boy  on  the  step 
that  makes  one  do  the  like,  that  helps  one  to  understand 
the  power  there  is  in  a  shilling.  But  many  human 
beings,  who  can  give  a  shilling  rather  than  take  it,  are 
as  really  beaten  as  the  little  boy.  They  too  have  got 
their  bags,  filled  with  no  matter  what.  Perhaps  poetry, 
perhaps  metaphysics,  perhaps  magazine  articles,  perhaps 
sermons.  They  thought  they  would  find  a  market,  and 
sell  these  at  a  great  profit,  but  they  found  none.  They 
have  fallen  down  a  stair,  and  broken  their  leg  and 
bruised  their  head.  And  now,  in  a  moral  sense,  they 
have  sat  down  in  the  dark  on  a  step,  and.  tUo-ig)"  oot 
crying,  are  gazing  about  tliem  blankly. 
Perhaps  you  are  one  of  them. 


'^^ 


w 

^ 


CHAPTER    XIV, 


GOSSIP. 


HO  invents  the  current  lies?  I  supj/ose  a 
multitude  of  people  give  each  their  little 
contribution,  till  the  piece  of  malignant 
tattle  is  formed  into  shape. 
There  are  many  people,  claiming  to  be  very  religious 
people,  who  are  very  willing  to  repeat  a  story  to  the 
prejudice  of  some  one  they  know,  though  they  have  very 
little  reason  to  think  it  true,  and  have  strong  suspicions 
that  it  is  false.  There  is  a  lesser  number  of  respectable 
people,  who  will  positively  invent  and  retail  a  story  to 
the  prejudice  of  some  one  they  know,  being  well  aware 
that  it  is  false.  In  short,  most  people  who  repeat  ill- 
natured  stories  may  be  arranged  in  these  two  classes :  — 

1.  People  who  lie. 

2.  People  who  lie,  and  know  they  He. 

The  intelligent  rcatlcr  is  requested  to  look  upon 
the  words  which  follow,  and  then  he  will  be  informed 
about  a  malicious,  vulgar,  and  hoi-ribly  stupid  piece  of 


gossip ; 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grekn 

ALWAYS 

Dress  for  Dinner. 


GOSSIP.  245 

My  friend  Mr.  Green  lately  told  me,  that  quite  by 
accident  he  found  that  in  the  little  country  town  where 
he  lives,  and  of  which  indeed  he  is  the  vicar,  it  had 
come  to  be  generally  reported  that  in  every  bedroom  in 
his  house  a  framed  and  glazed  placard  was  hung  above 
the  mantelpiece,  bearing  the  above  inscription.  Miss 
Tarte  and  IVIr.  Fatuous  had  eagerly  disseminated  the 
rumor,  though  it  was  impossible  to  say  who  had  origi- 
nated it.  Probably  Miss  Tarte  had  one  day  said  to  Mr. 
Fatuous  that  Mr.  Green  ouglit  to  have  such  a  placard 
so  exhibited,  and  that  some  day  JNIr.  Green  probably 
would  come  to  have  such  a  placard  so  exhibited.  A 
few  days  afterwards  Mr.  Fatuous  said  to  Miss  Tarte 
that  he  supposed  Mr.  Green  must  have  his  placards  up 
by  this  time.  And  next  day,  on  the  strength  of  that 
statement.  Miss  Tarte  told  a  good  many  people  that  the 
placards  were  actually  up.  And  the  statement  was 
willingly  received  and  eagerly  repeated  by  those  persons 
in  that  town  who  are  always  delighted  to  have  something 
to  tell  which  shows  that  any  one  they  know  has  done 
something  silly  or  bad.  At  last  a  friend  of  Mr.  Green's 
thought  it  right  he  should  know  what  Mr.  Fatuous  and 
Miss  Tarte  were  saying.  And  Mr.  Green,  who  is  a 
resolute  person,  took  means  to  cut  these  individuals 
short.  My  friend  has  exactly  one  spare  bedroom  in  his 
house,  and  no  one  who  is  not  an  idiot  need  be  told  that 
no  such  inscription  was  ever  displayed  or  ever  dreamt 
of  in  his  establishment.  Next  Sunday  Mr.  Green 
preached  a  sermon  from  the  text,  Thou  shall  not  hear 
false  witness  against  thy  neiyJihor.  And  after  pointing 
out  that  it  was  unnecessary  that  the  commandment 
should  forbid  ials*^  witness  to   the   advantage  of  one'g 


246  GOSSIP. 

neighbor,  inasmuch  as  nobody  was  likely  ever  to  bear 
that,  he  went  on  to  point  out,  with  great  force  of  argu- 
ment, that  if  man  or  woman  habitually  told  lies  to  the 
prejudice  of  their  neighbors,  their  Christian  character 
might  justly  be  held  as  an  imperfect  one,  even  though 
they  should  attend  all  tlie  week-day  services  and  mis- 
sionary society  meetings  within  several  miles.  Mr. 
Fatuous  and  Miss  Tartc  complained  that  this  was  very 
unsouud  doctrine.  And  INIiss  Tarte  wrote  a  letter  to 
the  Record,  in  which  she  stated  that  the  vicar  habitu- 
ally preached  tlie  doctrines  of  Bishop  Colenso. 

One  is  most  unwilling  to  believe  it,  yet  I  am  com- 
pelled by  the  logic  of  facts  to  think  that  malice  towards 
all  their  fellow-creatures  is  an  essential  part  of  the  con- 
stitution of  many  people.  All  the  particles  of  matter, 
we  know,  exert  on  each  other  a  mutiuil  repulsion.  Is  it 
so  with  the  atoms  that  make  up  human  society .-'  Many 
people  dislike  a  man  just  because  they  know  nothing 
about  him.  And  when  they  come  to  know  something 
about  him,  they  are  sure  to  dislike  hira  even  more.  In 
a  simple  state  of  society,  if  you  disliked  a  man  you 
woidd  knock  him  on  the  head.  If  an  Irishman,  you 
would  shoot  him  from  behind  a  hedge.  Tlie  modern 
civilized  means  of  wreaking  your  wrath  on  the  man  you 
dislike  is  different.  You  repeat  tattle  to  his  prejudice. 
You  tell  lies  about  hira.  Tliis  is  the  weapon  of  warfare 
in  Christian  countries.  Two  things  there  are  the  wise 
man  will  not  trust,  if  said  by  various  persons  we  all 
know :  — 

1.  Anything  to  their  own  advantage. 

2.  Anything  to  their  neighbor's  prejudice. 

It  is  a  bad  sign  of  human  nature,  that  many  men 


GOSSIP.  247 

should  have  so  much  to  say  to  the  prejudice  of  any  one 
they  know.  But  it  is  a  much  worse  sign  of  human  na- 
ture that  many  men  should  hear  with  delight,  and  speak 
with  exaggeration,  anything  to  the  prejudice  of  people 
whom  they  know  nothing  ahout.  The  man  you  know 
may  have  given  you  offence.  The  man  of  whom  you 
know  nothing  cannot  possibly  have  done  so  ;  and  if  you 
hate  him,  and  wish  to  do  him  harm,  it  can  only  be  be- 
cause you  are  prepared  to  hate  the  average  specimen  of 
your  race.  We  all  know  those  who,  if  they  met  a  fellow- 
creature  out  in  the  lonely  desert,  would  see  in  him  not  a 
friend  but  an  enemy,  and  would  prepare  to  shoot  him  or 
hamstring  him  unobserved.  For  the  people  I  mean  pre- 
fer to  deal  their  blow  unseen.  Tiiere  are  those  who,  as 
boys  at  school,  would  never  have  a  fair  fight  with  a  com- 
panion, but  would  secretly  give  him  a  malicious  poke 
when  unobserved.  And  such  men,  I  have  remarked, 
carry  out  the  system  when  they  have  readied  maturity. 
They  will  not  boldly  face  the  being  they  hate,  but  they 
secretly  disseminate  falsehoods  to  his  disadvantage. 

But  it  is  sad  to  think  that  the  hasty  judgments  men 
form  of  one  anotlier  are  almost  invariably  unfavorable 
ones.  It  is  sad  to  think  that  people  come  to  have  such 
malignant  feeling  towai-ds  otlier  people  who  are  quite 
unknown  to  them.  A  short  time  ago,  at  a  public  meet- 
ing, Mr.  Jones  was  proposed  as  a  suitable  person  to  be 
the  town  beadle.  Jones  did  not  want  the  beadleship, 
being  already  in  possession  of  a  preferable  situation  of 
the  same  cliaracter.  AVhen  his  name  w\is  jjroposed,  an 
old  individual  rose  to  oppose  him.  That  was  all  natural. 
But  this  individual  was  not  content  to  oppose  Jones's 
claims  to  the  beadlesliip,  he  positively  gnashed  his  teeth 


248  GOSSIP. 

in  furv  at  Jones.  He  had  no  command  of  language, 
and  could  but  imperfectly  exj)ress  his  hatred ;  but  he 
foamed  at  the  mouth,  the  veins  of  his  h-ead  swelled  up, 
and  he  trembled  in  every  limb  with  eager  wrath,  as  he 
declared  that  he  would  never  consent  to  Jones  being 
beadle ;  that  if  Jones  was  appointed  beadle  he  himself 
(his  name  was  Mr.  Curre)  would  forthwith  quit  the  town, 
and  never  again  enter  it.  Curre  had  never  exchanged 
a  word  with  Jones  in  all  his  life  ;  yet  he  hated  Jones,  and 
the  mention  of  Jones's  name  thus  infuriated  him,  even 
as  a  scarlet  rag  a  bull.  Poor  Curre  was  not  a  bad- 
hearted  fellow  after  all,  and  at  a  subsequent  period 
Jones  made  his  acquaintance.  Now,  one  great  principle 
Jones  holds  by  is  this,  that  if  any  man  hate  you,  it  must 
be  in  some  measure  your  own  i'ault ;  you  must  in  some 
way  have  given  offence  to  the  man.  So  Jones,  who  is  a 
very  genial  and  ^traightforward  person,  asked  Curre  to 
tell  him  honestly  why  he  had  so  keenly  opposed  his  ap- 
pointment to  the  beadleship,  adding  that  he  feared  he 
had  given  Curre  offence  in  some  way  or  other,  though 
he  had  never  intended  it ;  and  Curre,  after  some  hesi- 
tation and  with  a  good  deal  of  shame,  replied,  "  Well, 
the  fact  is,  I  could  not  bear  to  see  }  ou  riding  such  a  fine 
horse,  and  Mr.  Sneakyman  told  me  you  paid  a  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  for  it."  —  "  My  friend  Curre,"  was  the 
reply,  "  I  gave  just  forty  for  that  hoi'se,  and  how  could 
you  believe  anything  said  by  Sneakyman  ?  "  Curre  as- 
sured Jones  that  the  rea^^on  why  he;  had  disliked  him  was 
just  that  he  knew  so  Utile  of  him,  and  that  when  he 
came  to  know  him  his  dislike  immediately  passed  into  a 
real  wai-m  and  })enitent  regard.  And  when  Curre  died 
Boon  after,  he  left  Jones  ten  thousand  pounds.     Curre 


GOSSIP.  249 

had  no  relations,  so  it  was  all  right ;  and  Jones  had  nine- 
teen children,  so  it  was  all  riglit  for  him  too. 

Reader,  take  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  —  foolscap  paper. 

Take  a  pen.     Sit  down  at  a  table  where  there  is  ink. 

"Write  out  a  list  of  all  the  persons  jou  dislike,  adding 
a  brief  statement  of  the  reason  or  reasons  why  you  dis- 
like each  of  them. 

Having  written  accordingly,  ask  yourself  this  ques- 
tion :  Am  I  doing  well  to  be  angry  with  these  persons  ? 
Have  they  given  me  offence  to  justify  this  dislike? 

And  now  listen  to  this  prophecy.  You  will  be  obliged 
to  confess  that  they  have  not.  You  will  feel  ashamed 
of  your  dislike  for  them.  You  will  resolve  to  cease  dis- 
liking them. 

Believe  one  who  has  tried.  Here  on  this  table  is  a 
large  foolscap  page.  Three  names  did  I  write  down  of 
people  I  disliked ;  then  I  wrote  down  the  cause  why  I 
disliked  the  first,  and  it  looked,  being  written  down,  so 
despicably  small,  that  I  felt  heartily  ashamed.  And 
now,  you  large  page,  go  into  the  iire  ;  and  with  you  these 
dislikes  shall  perish.  At  this  moment  I  don't  dislike  any 
human  being,  and  if  anybody  dislikes  me  I  hope  he  will 
cease  doing  so.  If  ever  I  gave  him  offence,  I  am  sorry 
for  it. 

Yet  I  cannot  quite  agree  with  Jones  in  thinking  that, 
in  every  case  where  dislike  is  felt,  it  is  at  least  in  part 
the  fault  of  the  disliked  person.  In  many  cases  it  is : 
not  in  all.  A  n-tired  oilman  of  lartre  wealth  boii'dit  a 
tract  of  land,  and  went  to  reside  on  it.  He  found  that 
his  parish  clergyman  drove  a  handsome  carriage,  and 
had  a  couple  of  men-servants.  The  old  oilman  was  in- 
furiated. The  clergyman's  wife  erected  a  conservatory  : 
11* 


250  GOSSIP 

the  oilman  had  an  epileptic  fit.  Now  all  this  was  en- 
tirely the  oilman's  own  fault.  A  retired  officer  went  to 
live  in  a  certain  rural  district.  He  dined  at  six  o'clock. 
Several  people  round,  who  dined  at  five,  took  mortal 
offence.  0  for  the  abolition  of  white  slavery !  When 
will  human  beings  be  suffered  to  do  as  they  please  ? 

I  have  remarked,  too,  that  most  stupid  people  hate  all 
clever  people.  I  have  witnessed  a  very  weak  and  silly 
man  repeat,  with  a  fatuous  and  feeble  malignity,  like  a 
dog  without  teeth  trying  to  bite,  some  story  to  the 
prejudice  of  an  eminent  man  in  the  same  profession. 
And  even  worse :  you  may  find  such  a  man  repeat  a 
^tory  not  at  all  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  eminent  man, 
under  the  manifest  impression  that  it  t's  to  his  disadvan- 
tage. I  have  rarely  heard  Mr.  Snarling  say  anything 
with  more  manifest  malignity,  than  when  he  said  tliat 
my  friend  Smith  had  bought  a  fire-proof  safe  in  which 
to  keep  his  sermons.  Well,  was  there  any  harm  in 
^that?  "Bedwell  said  he  would  take  nothing  under  the 
chancellorship,"  said  Mr.  Dunup.  Perhaps  Bedwell 
should  not  have  said  so ;  but  tlie  fact  proved  to  be  that 
be  got  the  chancellorship. 

Clergymen  of  little  piety  or  ability,  and  with  empty 
churches,  dislike  those  clergymen  whose  churches  are 
very  full.  You  may  discern  this  unworthy  feeling  ex- 
hibited in  a  hundred  j^itiful,  spiteful  little  ways.  I  have 
remarked,  too,  that  the  emptier  a  man's  church  grows, 
the  higher  becomes  his  doctrine.  And  flagrant  practi- 
cal neglect  of  duty  is  in  some  cases  compensated  by  vio- 
lent orthodoxy,  the  orthodoxy  being  shown  mainly  by 
accusing  other  people  of  heterodoxy. 

Unworthy  people  hate  those  who  do  a  thing  better 


GOSSIP.  251 

than  themselves.  An  inefficient  rector  empties  his 
church.  He  gets  a  popular  curate  who  fills  it.  The 
parishioners  present  the  curate  with  a  piece  of  plate. 
Forthwith  the  rector  dismisses  the  curate.  Or  perhaps 
the  rector  dare  not  venture  on  that.  He  waits  till  the 
curate  gets  a  parish  of  his  own ;  and  then  he  diligently 
excludes  him  from  the  pulpit  whence  his  sermons  were 
so  attractive.  His  old  friends  shall  never  see  or  hear 
him  again,  if  the  rector  can  prevent  it.  And  further, 
the  rector  and  his  wife  disseminate  wretched  little  bits 
of  scandal  as  to  the  extravagant  sayings  and  doings  of 
the  curate,  all  exaggerated  and  mostly  invented. 

The  heroic  way  of  taking  gossip  is  that  in  which  the 
old  Earl  Marischals  took  it,  when  it  was  a  more  serious 
thing  than  now.  Above  the  door  of  each  of  their  cas- 
tles, there  were  written  on  the  stone  these  words :  — 

They  haif  satd  : 
Qhat  sayd  they? 
Lat  them  say! 


CHAPTER    XV. 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.* 


HIS  is  in  every  way  a  remarkable  book.  We 
have  before  us  in  this  vohime  the  most  gen- 
erally popular  Avork  of"  the  greatest  and 
meanest  man  of  his  time,  with  a  Commen- 
tary of  Annotations  by  the  man  who,  of  all  Hving  authors, 
approaches  in  many  of  his  intellectual  characteristics 
nearest  to  Bacon  himself.  AYe  find  in  the  writings  of 
Archbishop  Whately  the  same  independence  of  thought 
which  distinguishes  the  writings  of  Bacon  ;  the  same 
profusion  of  ilhistrution  by  happy  analogies  which  is 
characteristic  of  Bacon's  later  works  ;  the  same  clear- 
ness, point,  and  precision  of  style.  We  do  not  wonder 
that  the  accom])lished  prelate,  accustomed  (as  he  tells  us 
in  his  Preface)  to  write  down  from  time  to  time  the  ob- 
servations whicli  suggested  themselves  to  him  in  reading 
Bacon's  Essays,  should  have  foiuid  them  grow  beneath 
his  hand  into  a  volume  ;  and  we  cannot  but  regard  it  as 
a  boon  conferred  upon  all  educated  men,  that  this  vol- 
ume has  been  given  to  the  world.  Nor  must  we  omit 
to  remark,  in  this  age  of  readers  for  mere  entertainment, 

*  Bacon's  Essays :   with  Annotations  by  Richard  Whately,  D.  D., 
Archbishop  of  Dublin. 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON.  253 

that  although  the  vohime  be  a  large  one,  written  by 
an  archbishop,  and  consisting  of  comments  upon  the 
thoughts  of  a  great  philosopher,  the  book  is  invested 
with  such  an  attractive  interest,  that  it  cannot  fail  to 
prove  a  readable  and  entertaining  one,  even  to  minds 
unaccustomed  to  high-class  thought  and  incapable  of 
severe  thinking.  The  somewhat  severe  terseness  of  the 
Essays  is  relieved  by  the  lighter  and  more  popular  tone 
of  the  Annotations.  Arclibishop  AVhately's  mind  is  of 
that  nature  that  it  takes  up  each  of  a  vast  range  of 
subjects  witli  equal  ease,  and  apparently  with  equal 
gusto  ;  grappling  with  a  great  difficulty  or  unraveUing  a 
great  perplexity  with  no  more  appearance  of  effort  than 
when  liglitly  touching  a  social  folly,  such  as  miglit  have 
invited  the  notice  of  the  author  of  The  Book  of  Snobs, 
or  when  playfully  blowing  to  the  winds  an  error  not 
worth  serious  refutation.  Hardly  ever  in  the  range  of 
literature  have  we  observed  the  workings  of  an  intellect 
in  which  nervous  strength  is  so  combined  with  delicate 
tact.  We  are  reminded  of  Mr.  Nasmyth's  steam-ham- 
mer, which  can  smash  a  ma^s  of  steel  in  shivers,  or  by 
successive  taps  drive  a  nail  through  a  half-inch  plank. 

We  are  thankful  that  in  noticing  this  book,  we  are 
concerned  rather  with  the  annotator  than  with  the  es- 
sayist;  for  not  without  mucli  |)ain  can  we  look  back  on 
Lord  Bacon's  history.  There  is  something  jarring  in 
the  mingled  feelings  of  admiration  and  disgust  with 
which  we  think  of  Bacon's  greatness  and  meanness ; 
his  intellectual  grasp,  his  keen  insiglit,  his  wit,  his  imagi- 
nation (sober  in  its  wildest  flights),  his  serene  temper, 
his  brilliant  conversation,  his  courtly  manners,  his  free- 
dom  from  arrogance  and   pretence  ;    and   then,  on  tiie 


254  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON. 

other  side,  his  cold  heart  and  mean  spirit,  his  low  and 
unworthj^  ambition,  liis  despicable  sehishness,  his  fla- 
giant  di.slionesty,  his  crawling  servility,  his  perfidy  as  a 
friend,  his  sneakiness  as  a  patriot,  his  corruption  as  a 
judge.  As  to  his  intellectual  greatness  there  can  be  no 
question  ;  though  there  can  be  no  error  more  complete 
than  to  regard  him  as  the  inventor  or  discoverer  of  the 
Inductive  Philosophy.  He  did  not  invent  it ;  he  did 
not  skilfully  apply  it.  His  philosophy  differed  from 
that  which  preceded  it  less  in  method  than  in  aim  ;  and 
it  is  glory  enough  to  have  mainly  contributed  to  turn 
the  thoughts  and  tiie  efforts  of  thoughtful  and  energetic 
men  away  from  the  profitless  philosophy  of  the  schools 
to  the  practical  good  of  mankind.  In  tl)e  commodis  hu- 
manis  inservire  we  have  the  end  and  the  spirit  of  the 
Baconian  philosophy. 

The  Essays  constitute  Bacon's  most  popular  work,  if 
not  his  greatest.  They  illustrate  in  thought  and  style 
what  was  said  of  him  by  Ben  Jonson,  that  "  No  man 
ever  spoke  more  neatly,  more  j^ressly,  more  weightily, 
nor  suffered  less  emptiness,  less  idleness,  in  what  he 
uttered."  Their  subjects  are  Avell  known.  We  have  in 
them  the  thoughts  of  Bacon  on  a  considerable  range  of 
matters,  briefly  expressed,  most  of  them  not  occupying 
more  than  a  page  or  two.  They  may  have  been  written, 
many  of  them,  at  a  short  sitting,  though  they  manifestly 
give  us  the  results  of  mature  and  protracted  thought. 
And  here  and  there  occur  those  pregnant,  suggestive 
sentences  which  Archbishop  Whately  has  taken  as  texts 
for  his  own  observations.  The  Archbishop  reminds  us 
in  his  preface,  by  way  of  guarding  himself  from  the  im- 
putation of  presumption  in  adding  to  what  Bacon  has 


STATE  NORMAL  SuHj a, 

ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON.  255 

eairl  on  many  subjects,  tliat  the  word  "  essay,"  Avhicli 
has  now  come  to  signify  a  full  and  careful  treatise  on  a 
subject,  wa^  in  Bacon's  day  more  correctly  understood 
as  meaning  a  slight  sketch  to  be  filled  up  and  followed 
out ;  a  something  to  set  the  reader  a-thinking  ;  and  the 
Annotations,  which  form  by  a  great  deal  the  larger 
part  of  the  book,  contain  the  reflections  and  remarks 
which  have  been  suggested  to  the  Archbishop  in  his 
reading  of  the  Essays. 

The  Annotations  are  of  all  degrees,  from  a  sentence 
or  two  of  inference  or  illustration  to  a  pretty  full  dis- 
course on  some  topic  more  or  less  directly  suggested  by 
Bacon.  The  writer  frequently  presses  opinions  which 
he  has  elsewhere  maintained,  and  gives  many  extracts 
from  his  own  published  works.  We  also  find  several 
quotations  from  other  authors,  selected  (we  need  not 
say)  with  great  judgment ;  and  showing  us  incidentally 
how  wide  is  the  Archbishop's  reading,  and  how  com- 
pletely he  keeps  up  with  whatever  is  valuable  in  even 
the  lighter  literature  of  the  day.  In  that  portion  of 
this  volume  which  is  i)roperly  Dr.  AVhately's  own,  we 
have  the  acute  observations  of  a  writer  who  knows  both 
books  and  men  ;  of  a  keen  observer ;  a  thinker  almost 
always  sound  amid  extraordinary  independence  and 
originality  ;  a  master  of  a  style  so  beautifully  lucid  alike 
in  thought  and  expression,  that  we  hardly  feel,  as  we 
follow  in  the  track,  how  difficult  it  would  be  to  tread 
that  path  without  the  direction  o^'  a  guide  so  able  and  so 
sympathetic. 

The  characteristics  of  Archbishop  "Whately  are  very 
marked ;  and  his  negative  characteristics  not  less  so 
than   his    positive.      No   thoughtful    man   can    become 


256         AKCimisiiop  whatelt  on  bacon. 

acquainted  with  his  writings,  without  being  struck  quite 
as  much  by  what  this  distinguished  prelate  is  not,  as  by 
what  he  is.  Indeed,  what  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin  is 
not,  is  perhaps  the  thing  which  at  first  impresses  us 
most  deeply.  We  discover  iu  his  works  the  productions 
of  a  mind  which  can  apply  itself  to  the  most  diverse 
subjects,  and  give  forth  the  soundest  and  shrewdest  sense 
on  all,  expressed  in  the  most  felicitous  forms.  We  can- 
not but  remark  his  vast  information  ;  and  his  ripe  wis- 
dom, moral,  social,  and  political.  But,  after  all,  the 
thing  that  strikes  us  most  is,  how  thoroughly  different 
Archbishop  Whately  is  from  most  people's  idea  of  an 
archbishop.  We  associate  with  so  elevated  a  dignitary 
a  certain  ponderousness  of  mind ;  we  assume  that  his 
intellect  must  be  a  machine  which  by  its  weight  and 
power  is  rather  unfitted  for  light  work  ;  and  we  are 
taken  by  surprise  when  we  find  a  prelate  so  dignified 
combining  with  the  graver  strength  of  understanding  a 
liveliness,  pith,  and  point,  a  versatility,  wit,  and  play- 
fulness, which,  without  taking  an  atom  from  that 
respect  whicli  is  due  to  liis  high  position,  yet  put  us  at 
our  ease  in  his  presence,  and  lit  him  for  the  attractive 
discussion  of  almost  every  topic  which  can  interest  tlic 
scholar  and  the  gentleman.  The  geuei'al  idea  of  an 
archbishop  is  of  something  eminently  respectable,  per- 
haps rather  dull  and  prosy ;  never  startling  us  in  any 
way  by  thought  or  style  ;  looking  at  all  the  world 
through  iiis  own  medium,  and  from  his  own  elevated 
point  of  view  ;  and  above  all,  an  intensely  safe  man. 
The  very  reverse  of  all  tliis  is  Archbishop  Whately. 
Never,  indeed,  does  he  say  anything  inconsistent  with 
his  dignified  position ;    but  his  works  show  him  to   us 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.  257 

(ttnd  we  know  him  by  his  works  alone)  as  the  independ- 
ent thinker,  often  thinking  very  differently  from  the 
majority  of  men,  —  the  thorough  man  of  the  world,  in 
the  true  sense  of  that  phrase,  —  perfectly  versant  in  the 
ways  of  living  men,  from  the  tricks  of  the  petty  trades- 
man up  to  the  diplomacies  of  cabinets  and  the  social 
ethics  of  exclusive  circles,  —  at  home  in  the  literature 
of  the  hour  no  less  than  in  the  weightier  letters  of  phi- 
losophy, theology,  and  politics,  —  the  master  of  eloquent 
logic,  from  the  heavy  artillery  which  demolishes  a 
stronghold  of  error  or  scejiticism,  to  the  light  touch  that 
unravels  a  paradox  or  puts  a  troublesome  simjileton  in 
his  right  place,  —  the  master  of  wit,  from  the  half-play- 
ful breath  M'hich  shows  up  a  little  social  folly,  to  the 
scathing  sarcasm  which  turns  the  laugh  against  the  scof- 
fer, and  which  shows  the  would-be  wise  as  the  most 
ari'ant  of  fools. 

As  for  Archbishop  Whatcly's  positive  characteristics, 
we  believe  that  most  of  his  intelligent  readers  will  agree 
with  us  wiien  we  place  foremost  among  these  his  acu'e- 
ness  and  independence  of  thought.  The  latter  of  these 
qualities  he  possesses  almost  in  excess.  We  believe 
that  to  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin  the  fact  ihat  any  o[)in- 
ion  is  very  generally  entertained,  so  far  from  lieing  a 
recommendation,  is  rather  a  reason  for  regarding  it  with 
suspicion.  It  is  amusing  how  regularly  we  fuid  it  occur- 
ring in  the  prefaces  to  his  works,  that  one  reason  for  the 
publication  of  each  is  his  belief  that  erroneous  views  are 
coannonly  entertained  as  to  the  subject  of  it.  And 
when  we  consid<n'  how  most  men  receive  tlieir  opinions 
upon  all  subjects  ready-made,  we  cann<it  appreciate  too 
highly  one  who,  in   the  emphatic  sense  of  the   l)l^I•a^e, 

Q 


258  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON. 

thinks  for  himself .  It  is  right  to  add  that  there  is  hardly 
an  instance  in  which  so  much  originality  of  thought  can 
be  found  in  conjunction  with  so  much  justice  and  so- 
briety of  thought.  In  Archl)ishop  Whately's  writings 
we  have  independence  without  the  least  trace  of  wrong- 
headedness.  His  views,  especially  in  iiis  Lectures  on  a 
Future  State,  on  Good  and  Evil  Angels,  and  on  the 
Characters  of  the  Apostles,  are  often  startling  at  the  first 
glance,  because  very  different  from  those  to  which  we 
have  grown  accustomed  ;  but  he  generally  succeeds  in 
convincing  us  that  his  opinion  is  the  sound  and  natural 
cue  ;  and  where  he  fails  to  carry  our  conviction  along 
with  him,  he  leaves  us  persuaded  of  his  good  faith,  and 
sensible  that  much  may  be  said  on  his  part. 

Another  striking  characteristic  of  An-hbishop  AYhately 
is,  his  extraordinary  power  of  illustrating  moral  truths 
and  principles  by  analogies  to  external  nature.  Not 
even  Abraham  Tucker  possessed  this  power  in  so  emi- 
nent a  degree  ;  and  tlie  Archbishop's  illustrations  are 
always  free  from  that  grossness  and  vulgarity  which 
often  deibrm  those  of  Tucker,  who  (as  he  himself  tells 
us)  did  not  scruple  to  take  a  figure  from  the  kitchen  or 
the  stable,  if  it  could  make  his  meaning  plainer.  We 
cannot  call  to  mind  any  English  author  who  employs 
imagery  in  such  a  profuse  degree,  yet  without  the  faintest 
susi)icion  of  that  nerveless  and  aimless  accumulation  of 
figures  and  comparisons  which  constitutes  what  is  vul- 
garly termed  floweriness  of  style.  We  have  no  fine 
things  put  in  for  mere  fine-writing's  sake.  Dr.  Whate- 
ly'a  illustrations  are  not  only  invariably  apt  and  strik- 
ing ;  they  really  illustrate  his  point,  they  throw  light  upon 
it,  and  make  it  plainer  than  it  was  before.     They  are 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.  259 

I 

hardly  ever  long  drawn  out ;  consisting  very  frequently 
iu  a  happy  analogy  suggested  in  one  clause  of"  a  sen- 
tence,—  the  writer  being  anxious  to  make  that  step  in 
his  reasoning  clear,  yet  too  much  bent  upon  the  ultimate 
conclusion  he  is  aiming  at  to  linger  upon  that  step  longer 
than  is  necessary  to  make  it  so. 

To  these  literary  qualifications  we  add,  that  Arch- 
bishop Whately's  information,  though  evidently  reaching 
over  a  vast  field,  is  yet  minutely  accurate  in  the  smallest 
details ;  and,  without  the  least  tinge  of  pedantry,  the  fine 
scholarship  of  the  writer  often  shines  through  his  work. 
It  is  almost  superfluous  to  allude  to  the  invariable  clear- 
ness, point,  and  felicity  of  the  Archbishop's  English 
style,  which  often  warms  into  eloquence  of  the  highest 
class,  —  effective  and  telling,  without  one  grain  of  clap- 
trap. 

We  should  give  an  imperfect  view  of  the  characteris- 
tics of  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  if  we  did  not  mention, 
as  a  marked  one,  his  intense  honesty  of  purpose,  his 
evident  desire  to  arrive  at  exact  truth,  and  his  care- 
fulness to  state  opinions  and  arguments  with  pei-fect 
fairness.  Nor  should  his  fearless  out-spokenness  be  for- 
gotten. He  does  hot  hesitate  to  call  an  opi)onent's  argu- 
ment nonsense  when  he  has  proved  it  to  be  so.  "  Olten 
very  silly,  and  not  seldom  very  mischievous,"  *  is  his 
description  of  the  speculations  of  writers  of  the  Emerson 
school.  Our  readers  are  perhaps  acquainted  witli  the 
Archbishop's  remarks  upon  some  of  the  German  writers ' 
of  the  present  day  :  — 

"  The  attention  thoir  views  have  attracted,  considering 
their  extreme  absurdity,  is  something  quite  wondcriul.     But 

*  Preface,  p.  v. 


260  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON. 

thero  are  many  persons  who  are  disposed  to  place  confidence 
in  any  one,  in  proportion,  not  to  his  sound  judgment,  but  to 
bis  ingannity  and  learniiiy ;  quahfications  which  are  some- 
times found  in  men  (such  as  those  writers)  who  are  utterly 
deficient  in  common-sense  and  reasoning  powers,  and  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature,  and  wlio  consecjuently  fall  into  such 
gross  absurdities  as  would  be,  in  any  matter  unconnected 
with  religion,  regarded  as  unworthy  of  serious  attention."  * 

It  is  impossible  to  read  the  Annotations  without  feel- 
ing what  an  acute  observer  of  men  is  Archbishop  Whately. 
How  carefully,  in  his  passage  through  lite,  lias  his  quick 
eye  gathered  up  the  char9,cteristics  of  those  persons  with 
whom  he  has  been  brought  in  contact,  —  their  j)reten- 
sions,  foibles,  tricks,  and  errors  ;  and  how  w'ell  he  turns  his 
recollections  to  account,  when  an  example  or  illustration 
is  needed !  We  likewise  find  many  indications  that  he 
has  been  keenly  alive,  not  more  to  the  ways  of  men  than 
to  the  little  phenomena  of  nature.  We  refer  our  read- 
ers particularly  to  a  passage  on  the  degrees  of  cold  which 
are  experienced  in  the  course  of  a  single  night  (p.  305)  ; 
and  we  wonder  how  many  persons,  even  of  those  who 
generally  live  in  the  country,  are  aware  of  the  following 
fact :  — 

"  Any  one  who  is  accustomed  to  go  out  before  daylight 
will  often,  in  the  winter,  find  the  roads  full  of  liquid  mud 
half  an  hour  before  dawn,  and  by  sunrise  as  hard  as  a  rock. 
Then  those  who  have  been  in  bed  will  often  observe  that  '  it 
was  a  liard  frost  last  niglit,'  when  in  truth  there  had  been  no 
frost  at  all  till  daybreak."  —  p.  305. 

And  the  final  feature  we  remark  in  Archbishop  Whate- 
ly's  chai-acter  is  one  which  must  aflbrd  the  highest  satis- 

*  Lectures  on  the  Characters  of  Our  Lord's  Apostles,  p.  166. 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON.  261 

faction  to  all  who  have,  in  their  own  experience,  found 
earnest  personal  religion  existing  most  markedly  in  con- 
junction with  great  weakness,  ignorance,  and  prejudice ; 
and  to  all  who  have  ever  mingled  in  the  society  of  able 
and  cultivated  men,  who  thought  that  contemptuously  to 
put  religion  aside  was  the  indication  of  mental  vigor  and 
enlightenment.  It  is  most  satisfactory  to  find  the  writ- 
ings of  one  of  the  strongest-minded  men  of  his  time  all 
pervaded  and  inspirited  by  a  religious  principle  and  feel- 
ing, earnest,  unaffected,  really  practical  and  influential, 
—  as  perfectly  free  from  weakness  as  from  self-assertion 
and  self-conceit. 

We  believe  that  from  this  volume  of  Annotations  we 
could  construct  a  tolerably  complete  scheme  of  Arch- 
bishop Whately's  views  on  politics,  morals,  social  ethics, 
and  the  general  conduct  of  life.  We  have  some  indica- 
tion of  his  peculiar  tastes  and  bent  from  observing  which 
among  Bacon's  Essays  he  passes  by  without  remark, 
ITe  has  little  to  say  concerning  "  Masques  and  Tri- 
umphs." We  should  judge  that  his  nature  has  little 
about  it  of  that  "  soft  side "  whicli  leads  to  take  de- 
light in  the  recurrence  of  periodical  festal  occasions, 
witli  their  kindly  remembrances:  we  should  judge  that 
a  solitary  Christmas  would  be  much  less  of  a  trial  to 
him  than  it  would  be  to  us ;  although  the  instances  of 
Dickens  and  Jerrold  prove  that  the  warmest  feeling 
about  such  seasons  and  associations  is  quite  consistent 
with  even  extreme  opinions  on  the  side  of  progress. 
Then  the  Archbishop  passes  the  Essays  on  "  Building  " 
and  "Gardens"  without  a  word;  although  these  sub- 
jects woidd  have  set  many  men  off  into  a  rhapsody  of 
delighted    d<.'tails    and    fancies.       We    judge    tliat    Dr. 


262  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   GX   BACON. 

Whately  lias  not  a  very  keen  relish  for  external  nature 
for  its  own  sale  ;  liis  chief  interest  in  it  appears  to  be  in 
the  tracing  of  analogies  between  the  material  and  moral 
worlds.  The  fact  that  Bacon's  ideas  both  on  Building 
and  Gardening  are  now  quite  out  of  date  would  be  only 
the  stronger  reason  to  many  men  for  launching  out  upon 
the  subject ;  and  how  deeply  could  some  sympatliize 
with  Bacon  in  his  ideal  picture  of  a  princely  palace, — 
one  of  those  delightful  palaces  in  the  air  about  whose 
site  there  are  permitted  no  drawbacks  or  shortcomings 
on  the  part  of  Nature,  —  round  which  ancestral  woods 
grow  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  witliin  whose  view  noble 
rivers,  fed  by  no  springs,  can  flow  up-hill,  —  and  in 
whose  architecture  exjiense  and  time  need  never  be 
thought  of.  But  not  many  men  are  likel}'  ever  to  live 
in  palaces ;  not  many  moie,  perhaps,  would  care  to  pic- 
ture out  such  a  life  for  themselves ;  and  we  prefer  to 
Bacon's  palace,  the  delightl'ul  description  in  Mr.  Lou- 
don's EncyclopcEclia  of  Arcldlecture,  of  what  he  calls  the 
Beau  Ideal  Englisli  Villa. 

We  have  long  regarded  tlie  Archbishop  of  Dublin  as, 
in  several  i-espects,  almost  the  ibremost  man  of  tiiis  day. 
It  says  little  for  tlie  age's  intelligence,  that  while  Dr. 
Cumming's  paltry  claptiaps  sell  by  scores  of  thousands 
of  copies,  Arclibishoj)  Whately  commands  an  audience, 
fit  indeed,  but  comparatively  few;  for  his  writings  pos- 
sess a  very  high  degree  of  that  most  indisi)ensable, 
though  not  highest,  of  all  qualities,  interest.  He  is 
never  heavy  nor  tiresome.  Very  dull  people  may  under- 
stand, thougli  they  may  not  appreciate  him.  But  we 
are  persuaded  that  his  archbishopric  lessens  the  number 
of  his  readers.  Readers  for  mei'e  amusement  are  afraid 
to  begin  what  has  been  written  by  so  great  a  man. 


ARCHBISHOP    WHATELY    ON   BACON.  263 

"We  need  hardly  say  that  it  is  wholly  impossible  -within 
the  limits  of  a  short  article  to  give  any  just  idea,  either 
of  the  variety  of  topics  which  the  Archbishop  has  dis- 
cussed, or  of  the  manner  in  which  he  has  discussed  them. 
Bacon  himself  described  his  Essays  as  "  handling  those 
things  wherein  both  men's  lives  and  persons  are  most 
conversant " ;  and  Archbishop  Whately's  Annotations, 
ranging  over  the  same  wide  field,  can  be  described,  as  to 
their  scope,  in  no  more  definite  terms.  But  the  same 
necessary  want  of  unity  which  makes  the  book  so  hard 
to  speak  of  as  a  whole  renders  it  tlie  easier  to  consider 
in  its  separate  parts.  It  consists  of  precious  detached 
pieces,  each  of  which  loses  nothing  by  being  individually 
regarded.  But  before  glancing  at  some  of  the  topics 
which  the  Archbishop  ha^  treated,  we  wish  to  give  our 
readers  a  few  specimens  of  those  adinirable  illustrations 
of  moral  truths  by  physical  analogies  which  form  so 
striking  a  feature  of  his  writinj^s :  — 

"  There  are  two  kinds  of  orators,  the  distinction  between 
whom  might  be  thus  illustrated.  When  the  moon  shines 
brightly  we  are  apt  to  say,  '  How  beautiful  is  this  moonlir/ht ! ' 
but  in  the  daytime,  '  How  beautiful  are  the  trees,  the  fields, 
the  mountains  !'  —  and,  in  short,  all  the  objects  tliat  are  illu- 
minated ;  we  never  speak  of  the  sun  that  makes  them  so. 
Just  in  the  same  way,  tlie  really  greatest  orator  shines  like 
the  sun,  making  you  think  nuich  of  the  things  he  is  speaking 
of;  the  second-besl  shines  like  the  moon,  making  you  think 
much  of  him  and  his  eloquence." — (p.  327,  Annotation  on 
Essay  "  Of  Discourse.") 

'•  In  most  subjects,  the  utmost  knowledge  that  any  man  can 
attain  to,  is  but  'a  little  Teaming'  in  comparison  of  wiiat  he 
remains  ignorant  of  The  view  resembles  that  of  an  Ameri- 
can forest,  in  wliich  the  more  trees  a  man  cuts  down,  the 


264  AECUBISTTOl'   WnATKLY   ON  BACON. 

greater  is  the  expanse  of  "wood  he  sees  around  him." —  (p. 
446,  Annotation  on  Essay  "  Of  Stutlies.") 

In  an  annotation  on  llie  Essay  "  Of  Negotiating," 
Archbishop  Wliately  mentions,  as  a  cantion  to  be  ob- 
served, tliat  in  combating,  whether  as  a  speaker  or  a 
writer,  deep-rooted  prejudices,  and  maintaining  nni)opu- 
lar  truths,  the  point  to  be  aimed  at  .'■hould  be,  to  adduce 
what  is  sufficient,  and  not  much  more  than  is  sufficient, 
to  prove  your  conclusion.  You  affront  men's  self-esteem, 
and  awaken  their  distrust,  by  proving  the  extreme  ab- 
surdity of  thinking  differently  from  yourself;  and  — 

"  in  this  way  the  very  clearness  and  force  of  the  demonstration 
will,  with  some  minds,  have  an  opposite  tendi'ncy  to  the  one 
desired.  Laborers  wlio  are  enij)loyed  in  (Iriciny  tcctlr/es  into 
a  block  of  wood  are  careful  to  use  blows  of  no  greater  force 
than  is  just  sufficient.  If  they  strike  too  hard,  the  elasticity 
of  the  wood  will  throw  out  the  wedge." — (p.  432.) 

On  the  Essay  "Of  Praise,"  Archbisliop  Wliately 
remarks,  with  admirable  truth,  that  it  is  needless  to 
insist,  as  many  do,  upon  the  propriety  of  not  being 
wholly  indiiTercnt  to  the  opinions  formed  of  us ;  as  that 
tendency  of  our  nature  stands  more  in  need  oUceeping 
under  than  of  encouraging  or  vindicating:  — 

"  It  must  be  treated  like  the  grass  on  a  lawn  which  you  wish 
to  keep  in  good  order:  you  neither  attempt  nor  wish  to  de- 
stroy the  grass;  but  you  mow  it  down  from  time  to  time,  as 
close  as  you  possibly  can,  well  trusting  that  there  will  be 
quite  enougli  left,  and  that  it  will  be  sure  to  grow  again."  — 
(p.  491.)    ^ 

On  the  pjssay  "  Of  Youth  and  Age,"  we  have  many 
excellent  remarks  upon  the  fact  to  wliich  the  experience 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.  265 

of  most  men  bears  testimony,  that  great  precocity  of  un- 
derstanding is  rarely  followed  by  superior  intellect  in 
after-life ;  and  more  especially  that  there  is  nothing  less 
promising  than,  in  early  youth,  "  a  certain  full-formed, 
settled,  and,  as  it  may  be  called,  adult  character  : "  — 

"  A  lad  who  has,  to  a  degree  that  excites  wonder  and  ad- 
miration, the  character  and  demeanor  of  an  intelligent  man 
of  mature  years,  will  probably  be  thai,  and  nothing  more,  all 
his  life,  and  will  cease  accordingly  to  be  anything  remarka- 
ble, because  it  was  the  precocity  alone  that  ever  made  him 
so.  It  is  remarked  by  greyhound-fanciers  that  a  well-formed, 
compact-shaped  puppy  never  makes  a  fleet  dog.  They  see 
more  promise  in  the  loose-jointed,  awkward,  clumsy  ones. 
And  even  so,  there  is  a  kind  of  crudity  and  unsettledness  in 
the  minds  of  those  young  persons  who  turn  out  ultimately 
the  most  eminent."  —  (p.  405.) 

How  admirably  true !  "We  heartily  wish  that  many 
injudicious  parents  would  lay  this  to  heart.  Who  is 
there  who  does  not  rcm(.'mber,  how,  at  school  and  col- 
lege, some  cautions,  slow-speaking,  never-conmiitting- 
himself  lad,  whose  seeming  precocity  of  judgment  was 
mainly  the  result  of  stolidity  of  understanding  and  slow- 
ness of  circulation,  was  evermore  thrust  as  a  grand 
exemplar  before  the  view  of  those  whose  quicker  intel- 
lect and  warmer  heart  often  got  tlieni  into  scrapes  from 
which  he  kept  clear,  but  promised  what  he  could  never 
attain,  till  the  very  name  of  prudence,  discretion,  reserve, 
became  hateful  and  disgusting!  And  how  regularly 
that  pattern  boy  or  lad  has  proved  in  after-life  the  dul- 
lard and  booby  which  his  young  companions,  in  their 
more  natural  frank-heartedness,  instinctively  knew  and 
felt  he  was  even  then ! 
12 


266  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY    JN  BACON. 

On  the  Essay  " Of  Fiiendsliip "  the  Archbishop  ob- 
serves :  — 

"It  may  be  worth  noticing  as  a  curious  circumstance,  when 
persons  past  forty  before  they  were  at  all  acquainted  form 
together  a  very  close  intimacy  of  friendship.  For  grafts  of 
old  wood  to  take,  there  must  be  a  wonderful  congeniality  be- 
tween the  trees." —  (p.  276.) 

On  Bacon's  remark,  that  "  a  man  that  is  young  in 
years  may  be  old  in  liours,  if  he  have  lost  no  time,"  the 
Archbishop  says,  — 

"  And  this  may  be,  not  only  from  his  having  had  better 
opportunities,  but  also  from  liis  undtTstanding  better  liow  to 
learn  by  experience.  Several  dilTerent  men,  who  have  all 
had  equal,  or  even  the  very  same  experience,  —  that  is,  have 
been  witnesses  or  agents  in  the  same  transactions,  —  will 
often  be  found  to  resemble  so  many  different  men  looking  at 
the  same  book.  One,  perhaps,  thougii  he  distinctly  sees 
black  marks  on  wliite  paper,  has  never  learned  his  letters; 
another  can  read,  but  is  a  stranger  to  the  language  in  which 
the  book  is  Avritten  ;  another  has  an  acquaintance  with  the 
language,  but  understands  it  imperfectly ;  another  is  famil- 
iar with  the  language,  but  is  a  stranger  to  the  subject  of  the 
book,  and  wants  power  or  previous  instruction  to  enable  him 
fully  to  take  in  the  author's  drift ;  while  another  again  per- 
fectly comprehends  the  whole." —  (p.  400.) 

In  an  annotation  on  the  Essay  "  Of  Dispatch,"  we  find 
some  thoughts  on  the  advantage  of  knowing  when  to  act 
with  promptitude  and  when  witli  deliberation,  and  of 
being  able  suitably  to  meet  either  case.  Then  the 
Ai'chbishop  goes  on  as  follows  :  — 

"If  you  cannot  find  a  counscller  who  comhines  these  two 
kinds  of  qualification  (whicli  is  a  thing  not  to  be  calculated 


\RCHBISHOP    WHATELY   ON   BACON.  2G7 

on),  you  should  seek  for  some  of  each  sort,  —  one  to  devise  and 
mature  measures  that  will  admit  of  delay ;  and  another  to 
make  prompt  guesses,  and  suggest  sudden  expedients.  A 
bow,  such  as  is  approved  of  by  our  modern  toxophilites,  must 
be  backed  —  that  is,  made  of  two  slips  of  wood  glued  together : 
one  a  very  elastic,  but  somewhat  brittle  wood ;  the  other  much 
less  elastic,  but  very  tough.  The  one  gives  the  requisite 
spring,  the  other  keeps  it  from  breaking.  If  you  have  two 
such  counsellers  as  are  here  spoken  of,  you  are  provided  with 
a  backed  bow."  —  (p.  250.) 

Describing  the  two  opposite  sorts  of  men  who  equally 
precipitate  a  country  into  anarchy,  the  one  sort  by  obsti- 
nately resisting  all  innovations,  and  the  other  by  reck- 
lessly hurrying  into  violent  changes  without  reason,  the 
Ai'chbishop  says :  — 

"  The  two  kinds  of  absurdity  here  adverted  to  may  be 
compared  respectively  to  tlic  acts  of  two  kinds  of  irrational 
animals,  a  moth  and  a  horse.  The  moth  rushes  into  a  flame, 
and  is  burned;  and  the  horse  obstinately  stands  still  in  a  sta- 
ble that  is  on  fire,  and  is  burned  likewise.  One  may  often 
meet  with  persons  of  opposite  dispositions,  though  equally 
unwise,  who  are  accordingly  prone  respectively  to  these  op- 
posite errors;  the  one  partaking  more  of  the  character  of  the 
moth,  and  the  other  of  the  horse."  —  (p.  244.) 

Mr.  Macaulay  tells  us,  and  experience  confirms  his 
statement,  that  it  is  not  easy  to  make  a  timile  go  on  all- 
fours,  and  incomparably  more  dilficult  to  attain  strict 
accuracy  when  an  analogy  is  drawn  out  to  any  length. 
But  Archbishop  Whaiely  overcomes  this  diiliculty. 
There  is  no  hitch  whatever  in  tiie  following  comparison, 
thousrh  it  runs  to  very  minute  and  exact  details :  — 

"  The  elfect  produced  by  any  writing  or  speech  of  an  argu- 


268  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON. 

mentative  character,  on  any  subject  on  which  diversity  of 
opinion  prevails,  may  be  compared  —  supposing  the  argu- 
ment to  be  of  any  weight  —  to  the  effects  of  a  fire-engine  on 
d  conflagration.  That  ])ortion  of  the  water  wliich  falls  on 
idlid  stone  walls  is  poured  out  where  it  is  not  needed. 
That,  again,  which  falls  on  blazing  beams  and  rafters,  is  cast 
off  in  volumes  of  hissing  steam,  and  will  seldom  avail  to 
quench  the  fire.  But  that  which  is  poured  on  woodwork 
that  is  just  beginning  to  kindle,  may  stop  the  burning;  and 
that  which  wets  the  rafters  not  yet  ignited,  but  in  danger, 
may  save  them  fi'om  catching  fire.  Even  so,  those  who 
already  concur  with  the  writer  as  to  some  point,  will  feel 
gratified  with,  and  perhaps  bestow  high  commendation  on,  an 
able  defence  of  the  opinions  they  already  hold  ;  and  those, 
again,  who  have  fully  made  up  their  minds  on  the  opposite 
side,  are  more  likely  to  be  displeased  than  to  be  convinced. 
But  both  of  these  parties  are  left  nearly  in  the  same  mind  as 
before.  Those,  however,  who  are  in  a  hesitating  and  doubt- 
ful state,  may  very  likely  be  decided  by  forcible  arguments ; 
and  those  who  have  not  hitherto  considered  the  subject  may 
be  induced  to  adopt  opinions  which  they  find  supported  by 
the  strongest  reasons.  But  the  readiest  and  warmest  appro- 
bation a  writer  meets  with  will  usually  be  from  those  whom 
he  has  not  convinced,  because  they  were  convinced  already. 
And  the  effect  the  most  important  and  the  most  difficult  to 
be  produced  lie  will  usually,  when  he  does  nroduce  it,  hear 
the  least  of."  —  (p.  432.) 

"We  do  not  know  where  to  find  a  comparison  more 
correct  or  more  beautiful  than  that  with  which  the 
highly-gifted  prelate  concludes  his  remarks  on  those 
writers  who  inculcate  morality,  witii  an  exclusion  of  all 
reference  (o  religious  principle.  He  gives  us  to  under- 
stand tliat  the  resolute  manner  in  which  Miss  Edge- 
worth,  in  lipr  works,  ignored  Christianity,  was  the  result 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON.  2C9 

of  an  entire  disbelief  in  its  doctrines.  But  even  this  er.d 
fact  leaves  her  open  to  the  charge  of  having  falsified 
poetical  truth ;  inasmuch  as  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
Christianity,  true  or  false,  does  exist,  and  does  exercise 
a  material  influence  on  the  feelings  and  conduct  of  some 
of  the  believers  in  it.  And  to  represent  all  sorts  of  peo- 
ple as  involved  in  all  sorts  of  circumstances,  while  yet 
none  ever  makes  the  least  reference  to  a  religious  mo- 
tive, is  artistically  unnatural.  The  graver  objection 
still  remains,  that  the  moral  excellences  described  in 
non-religious  fictions  as  existing,  cannot  exist,  cannot  be 
realized,  except  by  resorting  to  principles  which,  in 
those  fictions,  are  unnoticed.  And  the  young  reader 
should  therefore  be  reminded  — 

"  that  all  these  '  things  that  are  lovely  and  of  good  report,' 
■which  have  been  placed  before  him,  are  the  genuine  fruits  Oi. 
the  Holy  Land,  though  the  spies  who  have  brought  them 
bring  also  an  evil  report  of  that  land,  and  would  persuade  ua 
to  remain  wandering  in  the  wilderness."  —  (p.  468.) 

In  pointing  out  the  unfairness  to  a  new  colony  ot 
making  it  the  receptacle  of  the  blackguai-ds  and  scape- 
graces of  the  old  country,  by  the  system  of  penal  trans- 
portation, the  Archbishop  happily  illustrates  the  way  in 
which  people  of  not  very  logical  minds  are  brought  to 
associate  things  wliich  are  not  merely  unconnected,  but 
inconsistent :  — 

"  In  other  subjects,  as  Avell  as  in  this,  I  have  observed  that 
two  distinct  objects  may,  by  being  dexterously  presented 
again  and  again  in  quick  succession,  to  tlie  mind  of  a  cursory 
reader,  be  so  associated  together  in  liis  tho,.jhts  as  to  be  con- 
ceived capable,  when  in  fact  they  an-  not.  of  being  aclualhj 
combined  iu  practice.     The  fallacious   belief  thus   induced 


270  ARCHBISHOP    WHATELY   ON   BACON. 

bears  a  stnkinrr  resemblance  to  the  optical  illusion  effected 
by  that  ingenious  and  ])hiiosophical  toy  called  the  '  thauma- 
trope*;  in  which  two  objects  painted  on  op[)o.site  sides  of  a 
card  —  for  instance,  a  man  and  a  horse,  a  bird  and  a  cage 
—  are,  by  a  quick  rotatory  motion,  made  so  to  impress  the 
eye  in  combination,  as  to  form  one  picture,  of  the  man  on 
the  horse's  back,  —  the  bird  in  the  cage,  &c.  As  soon  as  the 
card  is  allowed  to  remain  at  rest,  the  figures,  of  course,  ap- 
pear as  they  really  are,  separate  and  on  op|)Osite  sides.  A 
mental  illusion  closely  analogous  to  (his  is  produced,  when, 
by  a  rapid  and  repeated  transition  from  one  subject  to  an- 
other alternately,  the  mind  is  deluded  into  an  idea  of  the 
actual  combination  of  things  that  are  really  incompatible. 
The  chief  part  of  the  defence  which  various  writers  have, 
advanced  in  favor  of  the  system  of  penal  colonies  consists, 
in  truth,  of  a  sort  of  intellectual  thaumatrope.  The  pros- 
perity of  the  colony,  and  the  repression  of  crime,  are,  by  a 
sort  of  rapid  whirl,  presented  to  the  mind  as  combined  in 
one  picture.  A  very  moderate  degree  of  calm  and  fixed 
attention  soon  shows  that  the  two  objects  are  painted  on  op- 
posite sides  of  the  card." —  (p.  33-1.) 

On  the  risk  run  by  superstitious  persons  of  falling 
into  grave  error :  — 

"  Minds  strongly  predisposed  to  superstition  may  be  com- 
pared to  heavy  bodies  just  balanced  on  the  verge  of  a  preci- 
pice. The  slightest  touch  will  send  them  over;  and  then 
the  greatest  exertion  that  can  bo  made  may  be  insuiBcicnt 
to  arrest  their  fall." — (p.  155.) 

Illustration  is  sometimes  the  most  cogent  of  argu- 
ment. A  volume  of  reasoning  against  ultra-conserva- 
tism would  not  equal,  for  general  impression,  the  follow- 
ing plain  statement  of  the  case  :  — 

"  Is  there  not,  then,  some  reason  for  the  ridicule  which 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON   BACON.  271 

Bacon  speaks  of,  as  attachinji  to  those  '  who  too  much  rever- 
ence old  times  ? '  To  say  that  no  changes  shall  take  place 
is  to  talk  idly.  We  might  as  well  pretend  to  control  the 
motions  of  the  earth.  To  resolve  that  none  shall  take  place 
except  what  are  undesigned  and  accidental,  is  to  resolve  that 
though  a  clock  may  gain  or  lose  indefinitely,  at  least  we  will 
take  care  that  it  shall  never  be  regulated.  '  If  time '  (to  use 
Bacon's  warning  words)  '  alters  things  to  the  worse,  and  wis- 
dom and  counsel  shall  not  alter  them  to  the  better,  what 
shall  be  the  end?'"— (pp.  23G,  237.) 

We  shall  throw  together,  without  remark,  some  fur- 
ther examples  of  Archbishop  Whately's  power  of  illus- 
trating the  moral  by  the  physical.  So  marked  a  feature 
in  his  intellectual  portraiture  deserves,  we  think,  ex- 
tended notice.  But  it  is  only  by  studying  the  Annota- 
tions for  themselves,  that  our  readers  can  form  any  just 
idea  of  the  affluence  and  exuberance  of  happy  imagery 
with  which  they  sparkle  all  over :  — 

"  To  these  small  wares,  enumerated  by  Bacon,  might  be 
added  a  very  hackneyed  trick,  which  yet  is  wonderfully  suc- 
cessful, —  to  affect  a  delicacy  about  mentioning  particulars, 
and  hint  at  what  you  could  bring  forward,  only  you  do  not 
wish  to  give  off'enee.  '  We  could  give  many  cases  to  prove 
that  such  and  such  a  medical  system  is  all  a  delusion,  and  a 
piece  of  quackery ;  but  we  abstain,  through  tenderness  for 
individuals,  from  bringing  names  before  the  public'  '  I  have 
observed  many  things  —  which,  however,  I  will  not  particu- 
larize —  which  convince  me  that  Mr.  Such-a-one  is  unfit  for 
his  oflice  ;  and  others  have  made  the  same  remark ;  but  I  do 
not  like  to  bring  them  forward,'  &c.,  &c. 

'*  Thus  an  unarmed  man  keeps  the  unthinking  in  awe,  by 
assuring  them  that  he  has  a  [lair  of  loaded  pistols  in  hia 
pocket,  though  he  is  loth  to  produce   them." — (p.  210.) 


272  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BAOON. 

"  A  man  who  plainly  perceives  that,  as  Bacon  observes, 
there  are  some  cases  which  call  for  promptitude,  and  others 
which  require  delay,  and  wlio  has  also  sagacity  enough  to 
perceive  which  is  which,  will  often  be  mortified  at  perceiving 
that  he  has  come  too  late  for  some  things,  and  too  soon  for 
others ;  that  he  is  like  a  skilful  engineer,  who  perceives 
how  he  could,  fifty  years  earlier,  have  eflectually  preserved 
an  important  harbor  which  is  now  irrecoverably  silted  up, 
and  how  he  could,  fifty  years  hence,  though  not  at  present, 
reclaim  from  the  sea  thousands  of  acres  of  fertile  land  at  the 
delta  of  some  river." —  (p.  203.) 

"  As  in  contemplating  an  ebbing  tide,  we  are  sometimes  in 
doubt,  on  a  short  inspection,  whether  the  sea  is  really  reced- 
ing, because,  from  time  to  time,  a  wave  will  dash  farther  up 
the  shore  than  those  which  have  preceded  it,  but,  if  we  con- 
tinue our  observation  long  enough,  we  see  plainly  that  the 
boundary  of  the  land  is  on  the  wliole  advancing;  so  here,  by 
extending  our  view  over  many  countries  and  through  several 
ages,  we  may  distinctly  perceive  the  tendencies  wiiich  woulil 
have  escaped  a  more  confined  research."  —  (p.  300.) 

"  An  ancient  Greek  colony  was  like  what  gardeners  call  a 
layer;  a  portion  of  the  parent  tree,  with  stem,  twigs,  and 
leaves  imbedded  in  fr'ish  soil  till  it  had  taken  root,  and  then 
severed.  A  modern  colony  is  like  handfuls  of  twigs  and 
leaves  pulled  off  at  random,  and  iliiown  into  the  earth  to 
take  their  chance." — (p.  311.) 

" '  There  he  that  can  pack  the  card.'!,  and  yet  cannot  play 
well.' 

"  Those  whom  Bacon  here  so  well  describes  are  men  of  a 
clear  and  (juick  siglit,  but  short-sighted.  They  are  ingenious 
in  particulars,  but  cannot  take  a  comprehensive  view  of  a 
whole.  Such  a  man  may  make  a  good  captain,  but  a  bad 
general.  He  may  be  clever  at  surprising  a  picket,  but 
would  fail  in  the  management  of  a  great  army  and  the  con- 
duct of  a  campaign.  He  is  like  a  chess-player  who  takes 
several  pawns,  but  is  checkmated."  —  (p.  215.) 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.  273 

"  The  truth  is,  that  in  all  the  serious  and  important  affairs 
of  life  men  are  attached  to  what  they  have  been  used  to  ;  in 
matters  of  ornament  they  covet  novelty ;  in  all  s)-stems  and 
institutions,  —  in  all  the  ordinary  business  of  life,  —  in  all 
fundamentals,  —  they  cling  to  what  is  the  established  course  ; 
in  matters  of  detail,  — in  what  lies,  as  it  were,  on  the  surface, 
—  they  seek  variety.  Man  may,  in  reference  to  this  point, 
be  compared  to  a  tree  whose  stem  and  main  branches  stand 
year  after  year,  but  whose  leaves  and  flowers  are  fresh  every 
season."  —  (p.  228.) 

"  In  no  point  is  the  record  of  past  times  more  instructive 
to  those  capable  of  learning  from  other  experience  than  their 
own,  than  in  what  relates  to  the  history  of  reactions. 

"  It  has  been  often  remarked  by  geogi-aphers  that  a  river 
flowing  through  a  level  country  of  soft  alluvial  soil  never 
keeps  a  straight  course,  but  winds  regularly  to  and  fro,  in  the 
form  of  the  letter  S  many  times  repeated.  And  a  geogra- 
pher, on  looking  at  the  course  of  any  stream  as  marked  on  a 
map,  can  at  once  tell  whether  it  flows  along  a  plain  (like  the 
river  Meander,  which  has  given  its  name  to  such  windings), 
or  through  a  rocky  and  hilly  country.  It  is  found,  indeed, 
that  if  a  straiglit  channel  be  cut  for  any  stream  in  a  plain 
consisting  of  tolerably  soft  soil,  it  never  will  long  continue 
straight,  unless  artificially  kept  so,  but  becomes  crooked,  and 
increases  its  windings  more  and  more  every  year.  The 
cause  is,  that  any  little  wearing  away  of  the  bank  in  the  soft- 
est part  of  the  soil,  on  one  side,  occasions  a  set  of  the  stream 
against  this  hollow,  which  increases  it,  and  at  the  same  time 
drives  the  water  aslant  against  the  opposite  bank  a  little 
lower  down.  This  wears  away  that  bank  also;  and  thus  the 
stream  is  again  driven  against  a  part  of  the  first  bank,  still 
lower ;  and  so  on,  till  by  the  wearing  away  of  the  banks  at 
these  points  on  each  side,  and  the  deposit  of  mud  (gradually 
becoming  dry  land)  in  the  comparatively  still  water  between 
them,   the   course   of  the   stream  becomes  shiuou?,  and  its 

windings  increase  more  and  more. 

12*  R 


274  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON. 

"  And  even  thus,  in  human  affairs,  we  find  alternate 
movements,  in  nearly  opposite  directions,  taking  place  from 
time  to  time,  and  generally  bearing  some  proportion  to  each 
other  in  respect  of  the  violence  of  each ;  even  as  the  highest 
flood-tide  is  succeeded  by  the  lowest  ebb."  —  (p.  175.) 

Very  beautifully,  in  the  following  paragraph,  does  the 
Archbishop  illustrate  the  law  that  wliatever  is  to  last 
long,  must  grow  slowly  :  — 

"  We  hear  of  volcanic  islands  thrown  up  in  a  few  days  to 
a  formidable  size,  and  in  a  few  weeks  or  months  sinking 
down  again  or  washed  away ;  while  other  islands,  which  are 
the  sununits  of  banks  covered  with  weed  and  drift-sand,  con- 
tinue slowly  increasing  year  after  year,  century  after  cen- 
tury. The  man  tliat  is  in  a  hurry  to  see  the  full  effect  of 
his  ov/n  tillage  should  cultivate  annuals,  not  forest-trees. 
The  clear-headed  lover  of  truth  is  content  to  wait  for  the 
result  of  his.  If  he  is  wrong  in  the  doctrines  he  maintains, 
or  the  measures  he  proposes,  at  least  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of 
immediate  popularity.  If  he  is  right,  it  will  be  found  out  in 
time,  though  perhaps  not  in  hit  time.  The  preparers  of  the 
77uwunies  were  (Herodotus  says)  driven  out  of  the  house  by 
tlie  family  who  had  engaged  tlieir  services,  with  execrations 
and  stones ;  but  their  work  remains  sound  after  three  thou- 
sand years." —  (p.  503.) 

Although  these  extracts  have  been  given  mainly  to 
exemplify  Archbishop  Whately's  mode  of  enforcing 
and  illustrating  his  views,  they  may  liave  served  like- 
wise to  give  our  readers  some  notion  of  the  variety  of 
topics  treated  in  this  volume,  and  of  the  Archbishop's 
opinions  upon  some  of  these.  We  hardly  know  how  to 
attempt  a  description  of  the  matter  of  the  work  as  dis- 
tinguished from  its  vianner.  There  are  scores  of  para- 
graphs among  the  Annotations  which  might  each  supply 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.  275 

material  for  extended  review ;  and  we  had  marked 
many  interesting  passages  with  the  intention  of  discuss- 
ing at  some  length  the  views  contained  in  them.  But, 
even  after  weeding  out  of  our  list  the  topics  which  ap- 
peared of  minor  interest  (the  process  was  that  of  thin- 
ning rather  than  of  weeding),  so  many  remain,  that  we 
can  do  no  more  than  glance  at  two  or  three. 

In  the  second  edition  of  the  work  just  published,  we 
find  no  material  differences  when  compared  with  the 
first.  Archbishop  Whatelj's  opinions  have  been  too 
well  considered  to  admit  of  change  within  a  few  months' 
space.  But  the  minute  reader  will  find  here  and  there 
many  little  additions,  which  afford  pleasant  proof  that 
the  author  is  still  thinking  upon  the  subjects  treated  ; 
and  which  promise  that,  rich  as  this  volume  already  is 
in  wisdom  and  eloquence,  it  may  yet  be  further  enriched 
by  the  further  observation  and  reflec-tion  of  its  write:-.  lu 
the  former  edition  the  Essay  "  On  Faction  "  was  Ibliowed 
by  no  remarks  ;  in  the  present  edition  it  is  followed  by 
several  annotations,  —  some  of  them  suggested,  we  may 
believe,  by  recent  occurrences  in  America.  The  follow- 
ing passage,  of  special  interest  at  the  present  time, 
points  out  forcibly  the  advantage  of  having  in  a  state 
aliquid  impercussum,  —  a  ccnti-al  rallying-point  detached 
from  all  party,  and  to  which  all  parties  may  profess 
attachment :  — 

"  Bacon's  remark,  that  a  prince  ought  not  to  make  it  his 
policy  to  '  govern  according  to  respect  to  factions,''  suggests  a 
strong  ground  of  preference  of  hereditary  to  elective  sove- 
reignty. For  when  a  chief —  whether  called  king,  emperor, 
president,  or  by  whatever  name  —  is  elected  (whellier  for  life, 
or  for  a  term  of  yeai's),  he  can  hard!/   *void  being  the  bead 


276  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON. 

of  a  party.  IIo  wlio  is  elected  will  be  likely  to  feel  aversion 
towards  those  who  have  voted  against  him ;  who  may  be, 
perhaps,  nearly  half  of  his  subjects.  And  they  again  will  be 
likely  to  regard  him  as  an  enemy,  instead  of  feeling  loyalty  to 
him  as  their  prince. 

"  And  those  again  who  have  voted  for  liini,  will  consider 
him  as  being  under  an  obli/jalion  to  them,  and  expect  him  to 
show  to  them  more  favor  tlian  to  the  rest  of  his  subjects ;  so 
that  he  will  be  rather  the  head  of  a  party  than  the  king  of  a 
people. 

"Then,  too,  when  the  throne  is  likely  to  become  vacant, — 
that  is,  when  the  king  is  old,  or  is  attacked  with  any  serious 
illness,  —  what  secret  canvassing  and  disturbance  of  men's 
minds  will  take  place  !  The  king  himself  will  most  likely 
wish  that  his  son,  or  some  other  near  relative  or  friend,  should 
succeed  him,  and  he  will  employ  all  his  patronage  with  a 
view  to  such  an  election  ;  appointing  to  public  offices  not  the 
fittest  men,  but  those  whom  he  can  reckon  on  as  voters.  And 
others  will  be  exerting  themselves  to  form  a  party  against 
him  ;  so  that  the  country  will  be  hardly  ever  tranquil,  and 
very  seldom  well-governed. 

"  If,  indeed,  men  were  vcrj'  dilferent  from  what  they  are, 
there  might  be  superior  advantages  in  an  elective  royalty ; 
but  in  the  actual  state  of  things,  the  disadvantages  will  in 
general  greatly  outweigh  the  benefits. 

"  Accordingly  most  nations  have  seen  the  advantage  of 
hereditary  royalty,  notwithstanding  the  defects  of  such  a 
constitution." 

We  heartily  wish  that  all  parents  would  remember 
and  act  upon  the  Archbishop's  views,  as  expressed  in 
the  following  passage.  We  believe  the  caution  is  ex- 
tensively needed.  We  believe  that  many  injudicious 
parents  (with  the  best  intention)  trench  upon  tlie  incom- 
municable prerogative  of  tiie   All-wise  and   Almighty 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.  277 

by  needlessly  causing  griefs  and  disappointments  to  their 
children,  under  the  idea  that  all  this  forms  a  wholesome 
discipline.  They  forget  that  the  nature  and  effect  of 
every  event  partaking  of  the  character  of  pain  is  deter- 
mined by  the  source  it  comes  from.  When  the  heaviest 
sorrow  comes  by  God's  appointment,  we  bow  in  sub- 
mission ;  and  this  not  merely  because  we  cannot  help  it, 
because  it  is  vain  to  repine,  because  God  will  take  his 
own  way  whether  we  like  it  or  not,  but  because  we 
have  perfect  confidence  in  the  Tightness  of  whatever 
God  may  do,  and  because  we  feel  assured  that  there 
must  be  good  reason  for  all  He  does,  although  we  may 
not  be  able  to  discern  that  reason.  As  regards  man,  we 
have  no  such  confidence.  And  parents  may  be  assured 
that  their  ibolish  conduct  towards  their  children  in  many 
cases  is  a  training,  but  an  extremely  bad  one  ;  it  trains 
the  children  to  a  spirit  of  fruitless  and  therefore  bitter 
resistance,  and  of  dogged  resentment.  The  philan- 
thropist Howard,  by  taking  the  course  the  Archbishop 
reprobates,  drove  his  son  into  a  lunatic  asylum.  He 
followed  that  course  rigorously  and  universally,  and  so 
the  worst  degree  of  mental  disease  ensued  upon  it. 
Most  parents  follow  it  only  iu  part ;  and  the  lesser  evil 
follows,  of  alienated  afiection,  loss  of  confidence,  jaun- 
diced views,  and  a  soured  heart.  Yet  if  any  parent,  on 
a  cold  morning,  insists  on  his  children  remaining  in  tliat 
part  of  tiie  room  most  distant  from  the  fire,  when  their 
warming  their  little  blue  hands  there  could  do  no  harm 
to  any  human  being;  or  systematically  refuses  to  per- 
mit them  to  go  to  "children's  parties,"  not  because  they 
are  asked  to  too  many,  but  merely  because  it  is  good 
for  them  to   be  disappointed  ;    or,   genci-ally.  st-eks  to 


278  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON. 

repress  the  exhibition  of  gaiety  and  light-heartedness, 
because  "  we  must  through  much  tribuhition  enter  the 
kingdom  of  God,"  —  then  let  that  parent  be  assured,  that 
surely  as  the  field  sown  with  tares  yielded  a  harvest  of 
tares,  so  surely  will  this  petty  tyranny  bi'ing  forth  its 
natural  result,  of  resentment  and  aversion. 

"  Most  carefully  should  we  avoid  the  error  of  which  some 
parents,  not  (otherwise)  deficient  in  good  sense,  commit,  of 
imposing  gratuitous  restrictions  and  privations,  and  purposely 
inflicting  needless  disappointments,  for  the  purpose  of  inuring 
children  to  the  pains  and  troubles  they  will  meet  with  in 
after-life.  Yes,  be  assured  they  will  meet  with  quite  enough, 
in  every  portion  of  life,  including  childliood,  without  your 
strewing  their  path  with  thorns  of  your  own  providing.  And 
often  enough  will  you  have  to  limit  their  amusements  for  the 
sake  of  needful  study,  to  restrain  their  appetites  for  the  sake 
of  health,  to  chastise  them  for  faults,  and  in  various  ways  to 
inflict  pain  or  privations  for  the  sake  of  avoiding  some  greater 
evils.  Let  this  always  be  explained  to  them  whenever  it  la 
possible  to  do  so ;  and  endeavor  in  all  cases  to  make  them 
look  on  the  parent  as  never  the  volunlari/  giver  of  anything 
but  good.  To  any  hardsliips  wliich  they  are  convinced  you 
inflict  reluctandy,  and  to  those  which  occur  through  the  dis- 
pensation of  the  All-wise,  they  will  more  easily  be  trained  to 
submit  with  a  good  grace  than  to  any  gratuitous  sufferings 
devisod  for  them  by  fallible  men.  To  raise  hopes  on  purpose 
to  produce  disajjpointment,  to  give  provocation  merely  to 
exercise  the  temper,  and,  in  short,  to  inflict  pain  of  any  kind 
merely  as  a  training  for  patience  and  fortitude,  —  this  is  a 
kind  of  disciphne  which  man  should  not  presume  to  attempt. 
If  such  trials  prove  a  discipline,  not  so  much  of  cheerful 
fortitude  as  of  resentful  aversion  and  suspicious  distru-st  of 
the  parent  as  a  capricious  tyrant,  you  will  have  only  yourself 
(o  tliank  for  this  -esult." — (pp.  .58,  59.) 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATF.LY    OH   i^A."'ON.  279 

Archbishop  Whateiy  is  of  i>pii:>ion  tl>at  tuc  fear  of 
punishment  in  a  future  life  is  a  motive  of  ni<n'e  per- 
manent force  than  that  of  temporal  judgnienis.  We 
quote  his  words  :  — 

"  Tt  is  true  that  some  men,  who  are  nearly  strangers  to 
su'-.h  a  habit,  may  be  for  a  time  more  alarmed  by  the  de- 
nunciation of  immediate  temporal  judgments  for  their  sins, 
than  by  any  considerations  relative  to  '  the  things  which  are 
not  seen  and  which  are  eternal.'  But  the  eifect  thus  produced 
fs  much  less  likely  to  be  lasting,  or  while  it  lasts  to  be  salu- 
tary, because  temporal  alarm  does  not  tend  to  make  men 
spiritually-minded,  and  any  reformation  of  manners  it  may 
have  produced  will  not  have  been  founded  on  Christian 
principles."  —  (pp.  61,  62.) 

Upon  this  we  remark  that  there  can  be  no  question 
that,  were  future  punishments  realized  as  substantially 
as  temporal  evils,  they  ouglit  to  have,  and  would  have, 
a  much  greater  effect  in  deterring  from  sinful  conduct. 
But  the  great  dilficulty  with  which  men  have  to  contend 
is  the  essential  impossibility  of  realizing  spiritual  and 
unseen  things  in  their  true  bulk  and  importance  ;  of 
feeling  that  a  thing  in  the  Bible,  or  in  a  sermon,  is  as 
real  a  thing  as  something  in  the  daylight,  material  world. 
In  no  case  is  this  ditliculty  more  felt  than  in  regard  to 
future  punishments  in  another  life.  We  may  be  far 
mistaken ;  but  the  result  of  considerable  experience  of 
the  ways  and  feelings  of  a  rustic  population,  is  some- 
thing of  doubt  whether  in  practice  the  fear  of  future 
punishment  produces  any  effect  in  deterring  from  evil 
courses.  A  mountain  far  away  may  be  concealed  by  a 
shilling  held  close  to  the  eye  ;  and  iiiture  woe  seems  to 
crass  minds  so  distant  and  so  misty,  that  a  very  small 
immediats  gratification  quite  hides  it  from  view. 


280  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON. 

We  remember,  as  illustrative  of  this,  a  circumstance 
related  by  a  neigliboring  clergyman,  llis  parishioners 
were  sadly  addicted  to  drinking  to  excess.  Men  and 
women  were  alike  given  to  this  degrading  vice.  He  did, 
of  course,  all  he  could  to  repress  it,  but  all  in  vain.  For 
many  years,  he  said,  he  warned  the  drunkards  in  the 
most  solemn  manner  of  the  doom  they  might  expect  in 
another  world ;  but,  so  far  as  he  knew,  not  a  pot  of  ale 
or  glass  of  spirits  the  less  was  drunk  in  the  parish  in 
consequence  of  his  denunciations.  Future  woe  melted 
into  mist  in  the  presence  of  a  replenished  jug  on  a  mar- 
ket-day. A  happy  thought  struck  the  clergyman.  In 
the  neighboring  town  there  was  a  clever  medical  man, 
a  vehement  teetotaler.  Ilim  he  summoned  to  his  aid. 
The  doctor  came,  and  delivered  a  lecture  on  tiie  physical 
consequences  of  drunkenness,  ilhistiating  liis  lecture  with 
large  diagrams  wliich  gave  shocking  representations  of 
the  stomach,  lungs,  heart,  and  other  vital  organs,  as  af- 
fected by  alchohol.  These  things  came  home  to  the 
drunkards,  who  had  not  cared  a  rush  for  final  ])erdition. 
The  effect  produced  was  tremendous.  Almost  all  the 
men  and  women  of  the  parish  took  the  total-abstinence 
pledge;  and  since  that  day,  drunkenness  has  nearly 
ceased  in  that  parish.  Nor  was  the  inq)rovement  eva- 
nescent; it  has  lasted  for  two  or  three  years. 

The  Archbishop,  in  the  Annotations  upon  "  Simula- 
tion and  Dissimulation,"  discusses  the  question  whether 
an  author  is  justified  in  disowning  the  autborship  of  his 
anonymous  productions.  It  is,  indeed,  a  considerable 
annoyance  when  meddling  and  impertinent  person^,  in 
spite  of  every  indication  that  the  subject  is  a  disagree- 
able one,  persist  in  ti-ying  hy  Jishimj  (jnestions  to  discover 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.  281 

whether  we  know  who  wrote  such  an  article  in  Fraser's 
Bfagazine  or  the  Edinhmjh  Review;  and  though  no 
man  of  good  sense  or  taste  will  do  this,  no  author  is  safe 
in  the  existing  abundance  of  men  who  are  devoid  of  both 
these  qualities.  We  have  known  instances  in  which  the 
subject  was  recurred  to  time  after  time  by  impertinent 
questioners,  and  in  which,  by  sudden  inquiries  put  in  the 
presence  of  many  listeners,  and  by  interrogating  the  rel- 
atives and  intimate  friends  of  the  supposed  writer,  at- 
tempts were  made  to  elicit  the  fact. 

It  is  curious  to  remark  the  various  opinions  which 
have  been  put  on  record  as  to  the  casuistry  of  such  ca?es. 
There  is  but  one  opinion  as  to  the  extreme  impertinence 
of  the  questioners ;  and  so  far  as  they  are  concerned,  the 
curtest  refusal  to  answer  their  inquhies  would  be  the 
fittest  way  of  meeting  them.  But,  unhappily,  a  refusal 
to  reply  will  in  many  cases  be  regarded  as  an  answer  in 
the  affirmative;  and  if  the  only  alternatives  were  a  cor- 
rect answer  and  no  answer,  any  meddling  fool  might  re- 
veal a  literary  secret  of  the  highest  importance.  Dr. 
Johnson  took  up  tlie  ground  that  an  author  is  justified  in 
directly  denying  that  he  wrote  his  anonymou*  writings. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  expressly  declared  that  he  was  not  the 
author  of  the  Waverley  Novels.  INIr.  Samuel  Warren, 
when  a  lad  at  school,  with  characteristic  presumption, 
wrote  to  Sir  A\  alter  as  such,  and  Sir  Walters  answer, 
published  in  Mi-.  Warren's  Miscellanies,  expressly  repu- 
diates the  authorship.  ]\Ir.  Samuel  Rogers  drew  a  nice 
distinction.  iSouie  forward  individual,  in  his  presence, 
taxed  Scott  with  the  authorsiiip  of  Waverley  ;  Sir  Wal- 
ter replied,  "  Upon  my  honor,  I  am  not "  ;  and  Rogci-s 
thought  that  Scott  might  fairly  have  replied  in  the  nega- 


282  ARCHBISHOP   WIIATELY   ON   BACON. 

live,  but  that  lie  ought  not  to  have  said  "  Upon  my 
honor."  Swift's  rej)!)'  to  Serjeant  Bettesworth  ap- 
proached a  sliade  nearer  the  fact :  — 

"  Mr.  Bettesworth,  I  was  in  my  youth  acquainted  with 
great  lawyers,  who,  knowing  my  disposition  to  satire,  advised 
me  that  if  any  scoundrel  or  blockhead  whom  I  had  lam- 
pooned should  ask,  '  Are  you  the  author  of  this  paper  ?  '  I 
should  tell  him  that  I  was  not  the  author:  and  tuehefore 
I  tell  you,  ]Mr.  Bettesworth,  that  I  am  not  the  author  of  these 
lines." 

A  writer  in  a  recent  Quarterly  Review  *  appears  to  be 
for  exact  truth  at  all  ri,-ks ;  saying  that  the  question 
really  is,  whether  impertinence  in  one  person  will  justify 
falsehood  in  another  ;  and  maintaining  that,  if  the  least 
departure  from  veracity  is  admitted  in  any  instance, 
there  is  no  saying  where  the  thing  will  end. 

Archbishop  Whately  is  reluctant  to  advise  a  depar- 
ture from  the  truth  in  any  ease,  but  advises  a  method  of 
meeting  pr^'ing  qu<'Stioners  which  we  trust  reviewers 
will  make  use  of  on  occasion.  We  quote  the  passage  in 
which  his  advice  occurs ;  it  is  adiuii'ahle  for  i)oint  and 
2)ungeiicy :  — 

"  A  well-known  author  once  received  a  letter  from  a  peer 
with  whom  he  was  slightly  acquainted,  asking  him  whether 
he  was  the  author  of  a  certain  article  in  the  Edhiburgh  Re- 
view. He  replied  that  he  never  made  communications  of 
that  kind,  except  to  intimate  Irii-nds,  selected  by  himself  for 
the  purpose,  when  he  saw  fit.  His  rufu.sal  to  answer,  how- 
ever, pointed  him  out  —  which,  as  it  hapj)cned,  he  did  not 
care  for —  as  the  author.  But  a  case  might  occur  in  which 
the  revelation  of  the  authorsliip  might  involve  a  friend  in 

*  Quarterly  Review,  Vol.  XCIX.  p.  302. 


ARCHBISHOP    WHAIELY    ON    BACON.  283 

Bome  serious  difficulties.  In  any  such  case,  he  might  have 
answered  something  in  this  style :  '  I  have  received  a  letter 
purporting  to  be  from  your  lordship,  but  the  matter  of  it  in- 
duces me  10  suspect  that  it  is  a  forgery  by  some  mischievous 
trickster.  The  writer  asks  whether  I  am  the  author  of  a 
certain  article.  It  is  a  sort  of  question  which  no  one  has  a 
right  to  ask  ;  and  I  think,  therefore,  that  every  one  is  bound 
to  discourage  such  inquiries  by  answering  them  —  whether 
one  is  or  is  not  the  author — with  a  rebuke  for  asking  imper- 
tinent questions  about  private  matters.  I  say  '  private,'  be- 
cause, if  an  article  be  libellous  or  seditious,  the  law  is  open, 
and  any  one  may  proceed  against  the  publisher,  and  compel 
him  either  to  give  up  the  author  or  to  bear  the  penalty.  If, 
aifain,  it  contains  false  statements,  these,  coming  from  an 
anonymous  pen,  may  be  simply  contradicted.  And  if  the 
arguments  be  unsound,  the  obvious  course  is  to  refute  them. 
But  who  wrote  it  is  a  question  of  idle  or  of  mischievous  curi- 
osity, as  it  relates  to  the  private  concerns  of  an  individual. 

" '  If  I  were  to  ask  your  lordship,  '  Do  you  spend  your  in- 
come ?  or  lay  by  ?  or  outrun  ?  Do  you  and  your  lady  ever 
have  an  altercation  ?  Was  she  your  first  love  ?  or  were  you 
attached  to  some  one  else  before  '? '  If  I  were  to  ask  such 
questions,  your  lordship's  answer  would  probably  be,  to  desire 
the  footman  to  sliow  me  out.  Now,  the  present  inquiry  I  re- 
gard as  no  less  unjustifiable,  and  relating  to  private  concerns, 
and  therefore  I  think  every  one  bound,  when  so  questioned, 
alwaj'*,  Avhether  he  is  the  author  or  not,  to  meet  the  inquiry 
with  a  rebuke. 

"'  Hoping  that  my  conjecture  is  right,  of  the  letter's  being 
a  forgery,  I  remain,'  &c. 

"  In  any  case,  however,  in  which  a  refusal  to  answer  does 
not  convey  any  information,  the  best  way,  perhaps,  of  meet- 
ing impertinent  inquiries,  is  by  saying,  '  Can  you  keep  a  se- 
cret ? '  and  when  the  other  answers  that  he  can,  you  may 
reply,  '  Well,  so  can  I.' "  —  (pp.  68,  69.) 


284  ARCHBISHOP    WHATKLY   ON   BACON. 

There  are  some  admirable  remarks  under  the  head  of 
the  Essay  on  "  Parents  and  Children,"  upon  the  pro- 
priety of  considering  in  what  direction  a  boy's  talents 
lie,  in  making  choice  of  a  profession  for  him.  Too  fre- 
quently, when  we  speak  of  a  boy's  mind  having  a  bent 
to  some  pai-ticiilar  course,  it  is  understood  that  what  is 
meant  is,  that  he  has  an  extraordinary  genius  for  it ;  but 
it  is  to  be  remembered  that  — 

"  numbers  of  men  who  would  never  attain  any  extraordinary 
eminence  in  anything,  are  yet  so  constituted  as  to  make  a 
very  respectable  figure  in  the  department  that  is  suited  for 
them,  and  to  fall  below  mediocrity  in  a  dilTerent  one."  — 
(pp.  72,  73.) 

jMr.  Thackeray  would  be  delighted  with  the  short 
Annotations  on  the  Essay  "  Of  Nobility."  It  is  in  the 
nature  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  to  worshij)  rank  ;  and 
when  (as  in  the  United  States)  raidc  is  altogether  ig- 
nored, the  very  violence  of  the  reaction  from  the  way  in 
which  things  are  done  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  indi- 
cates how  resolute  is  the  bent  of  the  species  in  the 
contrary  direction.  It  is  the  man  who  has  a  strong  dis- 
position to  fall  down  at  the  feet  of  a  duke  that  is  most 
likely  to  deny  a  duke,  because  he  is  one,  the  courtesy 
due  to  a  man.  AVe  think  that  Archbishop  Whately'holds 
the  balance  very  fairly  between  the  two  extremes :  — 

"  In  reference  to  nobility  in  individuals,  nothing  was  ever 
better  said  than  by  Bishop  Warburton  —  as  is  reported  —  in 
the  House  of  Lords,  on  the  occasion  of  some  angry  dispute 
which  had  arisen  between  a  peer  of  noble,  family  and  one  of 
a  new  creation.  He  said  that,  '  High  birtli  was  a  thing 
which  he  never  knew  any  one  disparage,  except  those  who 
had  it  not;  and  he  never  knew  any  one  make  a  boast  of  it 
who  had  anything  else  to  be  proud  of.' 


ARCIIBfSIlOP    WHATELY    ON    BACON.  285 

"  It  was  a  remark  by  a  celebrated  man,  himself  a  jjentle- 
man  born,  but  with  nothing  of  nobility,  that  the  difference 
between  a  man  with  a  long  line  of  noble  ancestors  and  an 
upstart  is,  that  '  the  one  knows  for  certain  what  the  other 
only  conjectures  as  highly  probable,  that  several  of  his  fore- 
fathers deserved  hanging.'" —  (pp.  121,  122.) 

In  tlie  Annotations  on  the  Essay  "  Of  Friendship,"  the 
Archbishop  puts  down,  by  irresistible  force  of  argument, 
one  of  tiie  most  silly,  mischievous,  purposeless,  and 
groundless  errors ,  which  have  ever  been  taught :  we 
mean  the  doctrine  that  in  a  future  life,  happy  souls  will 
be  no  longer  capable  of  special  individual  friendship. 
We  have  often  been  filled  with  burning  indignation  at 
finding  in  tlie  book  of  some  empty-headed  divine  who 
never  learned  logic,  or  in  the  sermon  of  some  popular 
preacher  thoroughly  devoid  of  sense,  taste,  scholarship, 
modesty,  and  the  reasoning  faculty,  lengthy  tirades 
about  the  perfection  of  another  world  consisting  much  in 
an  entire  elevation  above  such  earthly  things  as  specific 
attachments.  We  have  seen  and  heard  it  stated  that  in 
a  future  life  blessed  spirits  will  never  remember  or 
recognize  those  who  were  dearest  to  them  in  this  ;  and 
perhaps,  indeed,  will  not  remember  or  recognize  their 
own  identity.  It  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  this  doc- 
trine is  as  groundless  as  it  is  revolting ;  and  most  truly 
does  Archbishop  Whately  say,  that  — 

"  this  is  one  of  the  many  points  in  Avhich  views  of  the  eternal 
state  of  the  heirs  of  salvation  are  rendered  more  uninterest- 
ing to  our  feelings,  and  consequently  more  uninviting,  than 
there  is  any  need  to  make  them." 

There  is  much  social  wisdom  in  the  remarks  upon  the 
Essay  "  Of  Expense."     And  here  the  Archbishop,  in  a 


286  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON. 

graver  tone,  propounds  a  like  philosophy  to  that  which 
Mr.  That:keruy  has  in  several  of  his  writings  enforced 
60  well.  It  would  be  hard  to  reckon  up  the  misery  and 
anxiety  which  are  produced  in  this  country  by  ab-urd 
and  foolish  straining  to  "  keep  up  appearances  "  ;  that 
is,  with  five  hundred  a  year  to  entertain  precisely  like  a 
man  with  five  thousand,  and  generally  to  present  a  false 
face  to  the  world,  and  seem  other  than  what  one  is. 
When  will  this  curse  of  our  civihzed  life  cease  ?  Surely, 
if  people  knew  how  transparent  are  all  the  pretences  by 
which  they  think  to  pass  for  wealthy  folk,  —  how  readily 
neighbors  see  through  them,  —  how  incomparably  more 
respectable  and  more  respected  is  sterling  yet  un- 
affected honesty  in  tliis  matter,  —  this  foolish  display 
would  cease,  and  the  analogous  ibrms  of  deception  would 
cease  with  it.  No  one  is  taken  in  by  them.  Any  one 
who  knows  the  world  knows  thorouglily  how,  by  an 
accompanying  process  of  mental  arithmetic,  to  make  the 
deductions  from  tlie  big  talk  or  the  pretentious  show  of 
some  people,  which  are  needed  to  bring  the  appearance 
down  to  the  reality.  The  green-grocer  got  in  for  the 
day  is  never  mistaken  for  the  fomily  butler.  The  fly 
jobbed  by  tlie  hour  is  easily  distinguished  from  the 
brougham  which  it  personates.  And  when  Mr.  Smith 
or  Mrs.  Jones  talks  largely  of  his  or  her  aristocratic 
acquaintances,  mentioning  no  name  without  "  a  handle 
to  it,"  no  one  is  for  a  moment  misled  into  the  belief  that 
of  such  is  the  circle  of  society  in  which  INIrs.  Jones  or 
Mr.  Smith  moves. 

In  the  Annotations  on  the  "  Regimen  of  Health," 
there  are  some  useful  remarks  upon  early  and  late 
hours,  and  upon  times  of  study,  which  we  commend  to 


ARCHBISHOP    WHATELY   ON   BACON.  287 

the  notice  of  hard-working  college-men.  And  these 
remarks  close  with  the  Ibllowing  suggestive  para- 
graph : — 

"  Of  persons  who  have  led  a  temperate  life,  those  will  have 
the  best  chance  of  longevity  who  have  done  hardly  anything 
but  live  ;  what  may  be  called  the  neuter  verba,  —  not  active 
or  passive,  but  only  being ;  who  have  had  little  to  do,  little 
to  suffer ;  but  have  led  a  life  of  quiet  retirement,  without 
exertion  of  body  or  mind,  avoiding  all  troublesome  enter- 
prise, and  seeking  only  a  comfortable  obscurity.  Such  men, 
if  of  a  pretty  strong  constitution,  and  if  they  escape  any  re- 
markable calamities,  are  likely  to  live  long.  But  much 
affliction,  or  much  exertion,  and,  still  more,  both  combined, 
will  be  sure  to  iell  upon  the  constitution,  if  not  at  once, 
yet  at  least  as  years  advance.  One  who  is  of  the  cliaracter 
of  an  active  or  passive  verb,  or,  still  more,  both  combined, 
though  he  may  be  said  to  have  lived  long  in  everything  but 
years,  will  rarely  reach  the  age  of  the  neuters." —  (p.  305.) 

"  It  is  better,"  said  Bishop  Cumberland,  "  to  wear 
out  than  to  rust  out " ;  yet  there  can  be  no  question  that 
when  the  energies  of  body  and  uiind  are  husbanded, 
they  will  go  further  and  last  longer.  Never  to  light 
the  candle  is  the  way  to  make  it  last  foiever.  Yet  it 
may  suffice  the  man  who  has  crowded  much  living  into 
a  short  life,  to  think  that  he  has  "  lived  long  in  every- 
thing but  years." 

"  We  live  in  deeds,  not  years  ;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths  ; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial. 
We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.     He  most  lives, 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  nets  the  best."  • 

In  remarking  on  the  Essay  "  Of  Suspicion,"  the  Arch- 
bishop writes  as  follows  :  — 

*  Bailey's  Ftstus. 


288  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON   BACON. 

"  Multitudes  are  haunted  by  the  spectres,  as  it  were,  of 
vague  surmises  and  indefinite  suspicions,  which  continue  thus 
to  haunt  them,  just  because  they  are  vague  and  indefinite, 
because  the  mind  has  never  ventured  to  look  them  boldly  in 
the  face,  and  put  them  into  a  shape  in  which  reason  can 
examine  them."  —  (p.  317.) 

A  valuable  practical  le.ssori  is  to  be  drawn  from  the 
principle  here  laid  down.  Only  e.\p(;rience  can  con- 
vince a  man  how  wonderfully  the  mind's  burden  is 
lightened,  by  merely  getting  a  clear  view  of  what  it  has 
to  do  or  bear  or  encounter.  Some  persons  go  through 
life  in  a  ceaseless  worry,  oppressed  ami  confused  by  an 
undefined  feeling  that  they  have  a  vast  number  and 
variety  of  things  to  do.  and  never  f<'eling  at  rest  or  easy 
in  their  minds.  If  any  man  would  just  take  a  piece  of 
paper  and  note  down  upon  it  what  work  he  has  to  do, 
he  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  mucli  less  formidable  it 
will  look  ;  not  that  it  will  necessarily  look  little,  but 
that  the  killing  thing,  the  vague  sense  of  undefined 
magnitude,  will  be  gone.  So  it  is  WMth  troubles,  so 
with  doubts.  H  any  one  who  is  possessed  with  the 
general  impression  that  he  is  an  extremely  ill-used  and 
unhap]iy  man,  would  write  down  the  special  items  of 
his  troubles,  even  though  the  list  sliould  bi;  of  consid- 
erable length,  he  will  find  that  matters  are  not  so  bad 
after  all.  There  is  nothing,  we  believe,  that  so  aggra- 
vates all  evil  to  the  minds  of  most  men,  as  when  the 
sense  of  the  vague,  indeterminate,  and  innumerable,  is 
added  to  it ;  and  we  are  strong  believers  in  the  f)Ower 
of  the  pen  to  give  most  people  clear  and  well-defined 
thoughts. 

We  may  particularize  as  especially  worthy  of  atten- 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.  289 

tion,  Archbishop  Whately's  observations  on  the  difFiirent 
periods  of  life  at  which  different  men  attain  their  mental 
maturity  (pp.  403,  404)  ;  on  the  license  of  counsel  in 
pleading  a  client's  cause  (pp.  509-512);  on  the  ne- 
cessity of  the  forms  and  ceremonies  of  etiquette,  even 
among  the  closest  friends  (p.  479)  ;  and  upon  the 
causes  of  sudden  popularity  (pp.  500-502).  Students 
will  find  some  valuable  advice  at  pp.  460,  461  ;  and 
young  preachers,  at  pp.  323,  324.  Dissenting  ministers, 
and  other  persons  who  pretend  an  entire  contem23t  for 
worldly  wealth,  either  because  the  grapes  hang  beyond 
their  reach,  or  from  envy  of  people  who  are  more  for- 
tunate, may  turn  with  advantage  to  pp.  350,  351. 
Those  amiable  individuals  who  are  wont  to  express 
their  satisfaction  that  such  an  acquaintance  has  met 
with  some  disappointment,  because  it  ivill  do  him  good, 
are  referred  to  the  Archbishop's  keen  and  just  remai'k 
upon  such  as  bestow  posthumous  jiraise  upon  a  man 
whom  they  reviled  and  calumniated  during  his  life,  and 
may  profitably  consider  whether  the  real  motive  from 
which  they  speak  is  not  liighly  analogous  :  — 

"  It  may  fairly  be  suspected  that  the  one  circumstance  re- 
specting him  wiiich  thoy  se  retly  dwell  on  with  the  most 
satisfaction,  though  they  do  not  mention  it,  is  that  he  \s(lead ; 
and  that  they  delight  in  bestowing  their  posthumous  honors 
on  him,  chiefly  because  they  are  posthumous ;  according  to 
the  concluding  couplet  in  the  Verses  on  the  Death  of  Dean 
Swift :  — 

"  And  since  you  dread  7W  farther  IngJies, 
Methiiiks  j'ou  may  forgive  his  ashes." 

-(p.  19.) 

We  must  draw  our  reraai  ks  to  a  close.     "We  feel  how 
imperfect  an  idea  we  have  given  of  Archbisliop  "Whate- 
13  S 


290  ARCHBISHOP    WHATELY   ON   BACON. 

ly's  Annotations,  —  of  their  range,  their  cogency,  their 
wisdom,  their  experience,  their  practical  in.^tructioQ, 
their  wit,  their  eloquence.  The  extracts  we  have  quoted 
are  like  a  sheaf  of  wheat  brought  from  a  field  of  a  liuii- 
dred  acres ;  but  we  trust  our  readers  may  be  induced  to 
study  the  book  for  themselves. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

SOME  FURTHER   TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIRS. 

A  Letter  to  the  Editor  of  "  Frasa-'s  Magazine." 

[In  a  former  voluine  of  Essays,*  I  filled  a  few  paj^es  with  a  letter 
written  to  the  editor  of  Fmser's  Magazine  by  my  neighbor  and 
friend,  Mr.  Macdonald  of  Craig-Hoiilakim.  That  letter,  when  pub- 
lished in  the  Magazine,  excited  so  much  interest,  that  .Mr.  Macdonald 
was  easily  persuaded  to  follow  it  with  anotlier  similar  one ;  and,  though 
not  going  all  my  friend's  length,  I  have  to  confess  the  substantial 
truth  of  his  statements.  A  little  space  iu  the  present  volume  will 
not  unfitly  be  spared  for  his  epistle.] 


General  Assesibly  IIall,  Castle-Hill, 
Edinburgh,  May  29,  1857. 

iY  DEAR  EniTOU  : — 'A  happy  thought  has 
just  occurred  to  me.  I  am  sitting  here  on 
one  ot"  the  baciv  benches  of  the  General  As- 
sembly of  tlie  Kirk  of  Scotland,  to  which 
venerable  Court  the  Presbytery  of  Whistlc-binkie,  with 
much  appreciation  of  real  merit,  lias  sent  me  as  one  of 
its  lay  representatives.  In  company  with  some  four  or 
five  himdred  more,  clergymen  and  laymen,  I  am  lejis- 
lating  for  the  ecclesiastical  good  of  the  jieople  of  Scot- 
land. I  have  been  engaged  in  this  work  for  a  week 
past,  and  shall  be  for  several  days  longer.  I  am  look- 
*  Leisure  Hours  in  Tow;),  Chapter  XIV. 


202  SOME  FURTHER   TALK 

i:i{:  out  at  this  moment  on  a  sea  of  anxious  faces,  inter- 
f'pi'rsed  with  many  l)al(l  heads.  The  atmosphere  is  hot 
and  feverish.  As  I  write,  an  outsider,  name  unknown, 
is  making  a  speech  to  which  nobody  is  listening  A 
booming  sound  of  Oarrdurr  occasionally  jjroceeds  from 
the  chair  when  the  hum  of  conversation  grows  into  a 
roar ;  for  my  good  fi-iend  Professor  Robertson  has  been 
elevated  to  the  dignity  of  moderator,  and  has  taken  his 
Aberdeensliire  accent  along  with  him.  For  the  last 
week  I  have  been  kept  here  to  all  hours  of  the  night, 
and  I  am  uncommonly  sleej)y ;  and  so  it  has  occurred 
to  me  that  in  the  intervals  when  the  business  of  the 
House  becomes  devoid  of  interest,  I  might  beguile 
the  time  by  writing  a  letter  to  you,  and  indulging  in  a 
little  further  di^^sertation  on  the  affairs  of  my  adopted 
country. 

When  I  last  wrote  to  you,  it  was  on  a  gloomy  day  in 
the  end  of  November, — just  that  season  when  you 
London  folk,  who  do  not  know  anything  better,  delude 
yourselves  into  the  belief  that  a  town  life  is  preferable 
to  a  country  one.  Since  tlien  we  have  seen  once  more, 
what  I  trust  I  never  siiall  see  witliout  leaping-up  of  the 
heart,  tlie  gradual  revival  of  the  spring.  Snowdrops 
and  crocuses  came  and  went;  the  birch  grew  fragrant, 
and  the  ])ine  was  tipped  with  delicate  green  ;  the  prim- 
roses sprang  in  the  woods;  and  although  the  dire  east 
winds  held  all  vegetation  back  for  weeks  beyond  the 
usual  period,  yet  when  I  left  home  to  come  to  the  As- 
sembly, I  thought,  witli  a  grudge,  that  for  many  a  day 
I  must  forego  the  blossoming  lilacs  and  hawthorns,  the 
fruit-trees  bending  with  tlieii-  weight  of  bloom,  tlie  soft 
green  of  the  beeches,  and  the  floral  glory  of  the  horse- 


ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIRS.  293 

chestnuts,  around  my  Highland  home.  There  is  no 
place  like  the  country,  after  all.  But  upon  that  subject 
you  and  I  shall  not  agree,  so  I  had  better  say  no  more 
about  it. 

Sitting  in  this  atmosphere,  my  thoughts  naturally 
take  an  ecclesiastical  direction  ;  and  while  I  look  at  this 
great  company  of  men,  almost  all  well-educated,  and 
many  of  them  possessing  high  ability,  who  from  Sunday 
to  Sunday  and  from  day  to  day  are  devoting  their  ener- 
gies to  the  religious  instruction  of  the  Scotch  people,  the 
fii*st  reflection  which  rises  to  my  mind  is,  the  total  sever- 
ance which  exists  in  many  parts  of  Scotland  between  a 
sound  creed  and  a  righteous  practice.  Few  things  sur- 
prise me  more  than  the  utter  lack  of  practical  force  in 
Scotch  orthodoxy.  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  same  thing 
must  be  lamented  in  all  countries,  by  all  who  are  anx- 
ious for  the  moral  elevation  of  mankind  ;  but  I  believe 
that  Scotland  is  the  country  which  exhibits  the  evil  in 
its  most  striking  form.  You  can  hardly  fiud  a  church 
in  this  country  in  which  sound  doctrine  is  not  regularly 
preached ;  you  can  hardly  find  in  country  places  a  child 
that  has  not  been  carefully  instructed  in  the  Shorter  Cat- 
echism, or  a  grown-up  man  or  woman  who  does  not 
make  some  profession  of  religion,  by  attending  church 
and  receiving  the  Sacrament ;  but  you  would  be  re- 
garded as  an  an-ant  simpleton  if  you  fancied  that  nine 
farmers  out  of  ten  whom  you  saw  most  exemplary  at 
their  devotions  on  Sunday  would  not  cheat  you  on 
Monday,  if  doing  so  would  put  five  shillings  in  their 
pocket.  Of  course,  you  have  plenty  of  grocers  in  Eng- 
land who  mix  sand  with  their  sugar,  and  sugar  with 
their  tea  ;  and  abundance  of  farmers  who  will  sell  you  a 


294  SOME   FURTHER   TALK 

lame  horse  as  a  sound  one  if  they  have  an  opportunity; 
but  if  sucli  a  man  among  you  English  folk  were  scru- 
pulous in  maintaining  morning  and  evening  prayer  in 
his  family,  and  given  to  shedding  tears  in  church  at  the 
practical  pieces  of  tlie  sermon,  you  would  certainly  con- 
clude that  he  was  adding  hypocrisy  to  his  other  sins. 
Not  so  here.  You  would  judge  quite  too  severely  were 
you  to  conclude  tliat  a  Scotch  farmer  was  a  hypocrite, 
because  you  found  him  shaking  his  head  sympatheti- 
cally at  the  minister's  warnings  on  Sunday,  and  then  on 
the  following  market-day  at  Whistle-binkie  declaring 
solemnly  that  he  had  paid  fifty  pounds  for  a  broken- 
winded  nag  which  he  had  really  bought  for  five.  Tlie 
true  state  of  the  case  is  that  our  friend  INIr.  Pawkie 
does  not  feel  tliat  his  religious  l)elief  has  any  connection 
whatever  witli  his  daily  life.  These  are  quite  separate 
things  in  his  mind.  It  is  one  thing  for  a  doctrine  to  be 
perfectly  right  in  a  sermon,  and  quite  another  for  it  to 
be  an  axiom  saft;  to  act  upon  in  the  grain-market  or  at 
the  Falkirk  Tryst. 

Last  Sunday,  instead  of  remaining  in  Edinburgh,  and 
getting  several  ribs  broken  in  an  attempt  to  get  into  the 
High  Kirk  to  hear  the  "  Sermon  before  the  Commis- 
sioner," I  prefened  going  quietly  into  the  country  with 
a  friend  who  lias  a  sweet  place  a  few  miles  off,  and  at- 
tending chunh  with  liim.  As  we  walked  through  the 
quiet  morning  to  the  ivj'-covered  little  kirk,  surrounded 
by  a  host  of  mouldering  gravestones,  on  which  a  hand- 
ful of  simple-looking  country  folk  were  seated,  awaiting 
the  hour  of  prayer,  I  should  certainly  have  fancied  that 
the  people  were  as  Arcadian  in  innocence  as  the  scene 
was  in  peacefulness,  had  I   not   lived   in   Scotland   for 


ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIRS.  295 

some  ten  years  past.  "While  service  was  going  on,  I 
was  especially  struck  by  the  devout  and  sympathetic 
attention  of  a  venerable  old  fogy,  apparently  a  respec- 
table farmer,  with  long  white  hair  and  a  most  benevolent 
expression.  The  sermon,  which  was  an  excellent  one, 
was  upon  the  duty  of  mutual  forbearance  and  kindliness  ; 
its  text  was,  "  Forgive  us  our  debts  as  we  forgive  our 
debtors."  The  good  old  man's  face  was  lighted  up,  and 
he  shook  his  head,  and  gently  waved  his  hand  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  senliments  expressed  by  the  preacher. 
You  would  have  said  that  he  was  recognizing  the  pa- 
thetic delineation  of  tlie  principles  on  which  he  was 
himself  acting  in  his  daily  life  of  charity  and  good  will. 
At  length  the  sermon  was  finished,  and  the  minister,  as 
is  usual  here,  read  the  parting  hymn.  An  expression 
of  high  and  holy  joy  beamed  upon  the  patriarch's  coun- 
tenance as  he  listened  to  it;  he  laid  his  head  back, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  lifted  his  hand  as  though  engaged  in 
silent  prayer,  as  the  clergyman  read  the  lines :  — 

"  Let  such  as  feel  oppression's  load 
Thy  tender  pity  share; 
And  let  the  helpless,  homeless  poor, 
Be  thy  peculiar  care. 

"  Go,  bid  the  hungry  orphan  be 
With  thy  abundance  blest; 
Invite  the  w.indercr  to  thy  door, 
And  spread  the  couch  of  rest." 

In  walking  home  from  chul-ch,  I  made  inquiry  of  my 
friend  as  to  the  benevolent  and  pious  old  gentleman 
whose  bearing  had  so  charmed  me.  He  ivas  a  farmer, 
as  I  had  surmised ;  a  man  paying  some  eight  hundred 
a  year  of  rent,  and  enjoying  a  good  income.     I  learned 


296  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

in  addition  to  this,  that  he  was  a  thorough-going  old 
scoundrel ;  a  notorious  cheat,  swearer,  drunkard,  and 
worse.  He  had  palmed  off  more  lame  horses  than  any 
man  in  the  county,  and  told  more  lies  in  his  time  than 
would  sink  a  man-of-war.  The  last  of  his  doings,  which 
he  accomplished  two  days  before  I  saw  him,  was  seizing 
the  bed  from  under  a  poor  widow  whose  husband  had 
died  a  few  months  previously,  and  who  had  been  wear- 
ing her  fingei's  to  the  bone  to  support  her  little  children, 
but  had  failed  to  pay  the  old  rascal  a  most  exorbitant 
rent  for  a  miserable  hovel  upon  his  ground.  Yet  this 
man  was  the  most  exemplary  in  the  parish  in  his  atten- 
tion to  the  ordinances  of  religion :  he  never  was  absent 
from  a  sacrament ;  and  on  the  Sunday  after  seizing  the 
widow's  poor  sticks  of  furniture,  I  beheld  iiim,  radiant 
with  holy  joy,  wagging  his  head  and  waving  his  hand  in 

the  church  of  C .   How  I  wished  I  were  the  Emperor 

of  Russia,  and  the  old  gentleman  one  of  my  subjects. 
Should  not  I  have  given  him  a  taste  of  the  knout! 
shouldn't  I  have  made  him  howl ! 

As  I  write  these  words.  Professor  Pirie  of  Aberdeen 
rises  to  make  a  speech.  He  begins,  "  Aw  doant  see 
thawt,  Moaderahturr,"  as  he  raises  his  fist  in  the  air. 
Had  it  been  Mr.  Phin,  or  Dr.  Tulloch,  or  Mr.  McLeod, 
1  should  have  prepared  to  listen  with  all  attention  ;  but 
as  it  is  quite  certain  that  ]\Ir.  Pirie's  speech  will  not  be 
worth  listening  to,  and  cfjurdly  certain  that  it  will  be  a 
long  one,  I  shall  occupy  its  duration  m  telling  you  some- 
thing about  a  very  interesting  Scotch  institution,  —  that 
of  our  parish  schools. 

During  the  month  of  March,  in  that  part  of  the  coun- 


ABOUT   SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  297 

try  in  which  I  reside,  two  days  in  each  week  are  de- 
voted to  the  examination  of  tlie  schools  by  committees 
of  tlie  Presbytery  ;  and  as  I  feel  a  good  deal  of  interest 
in  the  great  education  question,  and  am  anxious  to  know 
the  true  condition  of  Scotland  in  regard  to  the  training 
of  the  young,  I  accompanied  my  friend,  the  parish 
clergyman,  this  year  to  the  examination  of  seven  or 
eight  of  the  neighboring  schools.  You  must  understand 
that  every  parish  in  Scotland  has  its  parish  school,  as 
certainly  as  its  parish  church ;  and  in  these  schools  gen- 
erally a  sound,  fair  education  may  be  obtained,  quite 
adequate  to  the  circumstances  of  the  Scottish  peasantry. 
Reading,  writing,  arithmetic,  and  religion  as  set  out  in 
the  Catechism  of  the  Scotch  Church,  are  taught  to  all 
comers,  without  distinction  of  sect.  The  result  of  the 
existence  of  these  schools  is,  that  except  in  the  large 
cities,  in  which  the  population  has  outgrown  their  reach, 
all  Scotch  men  and  women  are  able  to  read  and  write- 
Hardly  ever  is  a  bride  or  bridegroom  under  the  neces- 
sity of  affixing  a  cross  to  the  registration  jjaper,  from 
want  of  capacity  to  sign  the  name.  These  parish 
schools  are  to  all  intents  a  part  of  the  National  Church. 
They  are  endowed  from  its  revenues,  their  teachers  must 
be  churchmen,  and  they  are  under  the  supervision  of  the 
Presbytery  of  the  district.  A  committee,  consisting  of 
three  or  four  clerical  members  of  the  Presbytery,  yearly 
examines  each  school ;  and  I  can  testify  from  personal 
experience  that  the  examination  is  no  sham.  Those  at 
which  I  was  this  year  present  lasted  from  five  to  nine 
hours  each. 

The  salaries  of  the  schoolmasters  are  shamefully  in- 
adequate.     They    average    some    twenty-live    pounds 
13* 


298  SOME  FURTHER   TALK 

a  year  in  most  cases,  with  a  dwelling-house.  The 
school-liouses  are  often  wretchedly  bad.  The  build- 
ings are  maintained,  and  tlie  salaries  are  paid,  by  tiie 
heritors;  and  you  will  be  able  to  judge,  from  what  I 
told  you  in  my  last  letter,  how  much  is  in  many  cases  to 
be  expected  from  their  liberality.  Where  the  parish  is 
large,  —  and  parishes  of  twelve  and  fourteen  miles  in 
length  are  common,  even  in  the  Lowlands,  —  there  are 
sometimes  three  or  four  schools  ;  and  in  such  cases  this 
princely  endowment  is  divided  among  their  teachers. 
Besides  the  endowment,  the  teacliers  in  all  cases  receive 
the  school  fees  paid  by  tiie  children.  These  fees  vary 
from  eighteen-pence  to  four  or  five  shillings  a  quarter, 
according  to  the  number  of  branches  tauglit.  The 
number  of  children  attending  a  parish  school  may  aver- 
age fi'om  fifty  to  a  hundred.  I  have  known  cases  in 
which  the  numbers  amounted  to  two  and  even  three 
hundred  ;  but  these  instances  are  rare,  and  then  we  find 
the  teacher  claiming  for  his  school  the  more  ambitious 
designation  of  academy.  Many  parochial  teachers  de- 
rive an  increase  of  income  from  the  Privy  Council 
grants  ;  but  with  that  curious  jealousy  of  state  inter- 
ference in  religious  matters  whicli  is  ingrained  into  the 
Scotch  character,  many  eminent  clergymen  refuse  to 
receive  the  grant  on  the  accompanying  condition  that 
the  government  inspector  shall  annually  examine  the 
school.  This,  it  is  maintained  by  some,  with  a  feeling 
which  appears  to  me  Quixotic  in  the  extreme,  implies  a 
doubt  of  the  sufiiciency  of  the  examination  by  the  Pres- 
bytery. 

The  Scotcli  parish  schoolmaster  toils  away  from  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning  till  three  or  four  in  the  afternoon, 


ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIRS.  299 

with  a  single  hour's  intermission  for  dinner.  He  teaches 
the  alphabet,  four  or  five  reading  classes,  geography, 
history,  arithmetic,  writing,  Latin,  Greek,  French,  ge- 
ometry, and  algebra.  I  have  seen  all  these  things 
taught,  and  well  taught,  by  a  man  who  had  not  forty 
pounds  a  year.  In  remote  country  districts,  the  ele- 
mentary branches  only  are  taught ;  but  there  are  very 
few  schools  in  which  there  is  not  a  Latin  class.  I  ven- 
ture to  assert  tliat  the  parish  schools  are  for  the  mos(, 
part  extremely  well,  and  in  many  instances  admirably, 
taught ;  and  any  one  who  says  otherwise  must  be  alto- 
gether ignorant  of  the  facts.  The  teachers  are,  with 
rare  exceptions,  quite  exemplary  in  conduct,  and  almost 
always  very  intelligent  men  ;  many  exhibit  an  energy 
and  spirit  in  conducting  their  classes  which  are  extraor- 
dinary. They  teach  all  the  year  round,  except  six 
weeks  in  autumn.  The  holidays  are  at  that  season, 
in  order  that  the  cliildien  may  work  in  the  liarvest  field, 
reaping  or  attending  upon  the  reapers.  Indeed,  it  is  a 
matter  of  general  complaint  in  country  districts  that  the 
children  are  frequently  taken  away  from  school  to  eke 
out  their  parent's  earnings  by  field-work.  A  child  of 
seven  or  eight  years  old  can  earn  eightpence  a  day  in 
weeding  turnips  in  the  season.  But  when  he  returns  to 
school  after  some  weeks'  absence,  the  teacher  finds  that 
he  has  ibrgotten  all  he  had  learned  before. 

I  have  seen  school-rooms  of  all  different  degrees. 
Sometimes  they  are  spacious  and  airy,  the  walls  well 
furnished  with  maps  and  pictures,  and  presenting  a 
general  aspect  of  cheerfulness  and  comfort.  Much 
more  frequently  I  have  found  them  wretched,  ill-ven- 
tilated, over-crowded  apartments,  with  bare  walls  green 


300  SOME   FURTHKR   TALK 

with  (lamp,  a  moist  earthen  floor  worn  into  deep  hoi-* 
lows,  and  a  ceilin<r  from  which  the  phxster  hud  fallen  in 
large  patclies.  Tiie  forms  and  desks  were  rickety  and 
creaking,  cut  almost  in  pieces  by  the  knives  of  successive 
generations  of  school-boys ;  and  the  entire  impression 
left  by  the  place  was  stupefying  and  disheartening  to 
the  last  degree.  Shabby  heritors  fuid  a  pretext  for 
allowing  this  state  of  things  to  continue,  in  the  pros- 
pect of  such  a  legislative  act  as  shall  put  the  entire 
educational  system  of  Scotland  upon  a  new  footing. 
I  heartily  hope,  my  dear  friend,  that  the  day  may  not 
be  far  distant  that  sliall  give  our  hard-working  parish 
teachers  something  like  decent  salaries,  —  fifty  pounds 
a  year  is  the  highest  salary  contemplated,  —  and  that 
shall  I'id  us  of  those  miserable  school-buildings  in  which 
a  boy  is  driven  stupid  by  the  din  and  the  stifling  atmos- 
phere ;  but  I  cannot  see  why  this  should  not  be  done 
without  taking  the  parish  schools  from  under  the  super- 
intendence of  the  Church.  Whatever  may  have  been 
the  case  in  past  days,  when  botli  the  churches  of  Britain 
were  comatose  enough,  I  can  iissure  you  that  now  the 
superintendence  of  the  Presbytery  is  most  effective  and 
vigilant ;  and  I  can  assure  you,  likewise,  that  the  people 
of  Scotland,  as  a  whole,  have  perfect  confidence  in  the 
schools  as  at  present  constituted.  All  sects  of  dissenters 
send  their  childi'en  most  willingly  to  the  parish  school. 
The  Lord  Advocate,  who  has  brought  into  Parliament 
repeated  bills  for  separating  the  schools  from  the 
Church,  is  a  mere  tool  in  the  hands  of  the  leaders  of  the 
"Free  Kirk."  That  "body"  has  built  schools  of  its 
own  in  many  parishes;  and  finding  that  it  cannot  sup- 
port them,  would  like  to  get  them  taken  off  its  hands. 


ABOUT   SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  301 

This  the  Lord  Advocate's  bill  would  do.  I  do  not  ex- 
pect, my  dear  editor,  that  you  will  entire!}'  sympathize 
with  me  in  what  you  may  possibly  regard  my  olJ-fash- 
ioiied  and  illiberal  notions  upon  this  point ;  but  they  are 
the  result  of  a  good  deal  of  observation  and  no  little 
reflection,  and  I  hold  ihem  iirinly. 

A  great  day  in  the  parish  is  that  of  the  school  exami- 
nation. The  children  are  all  assembled  betimes,  with 
clean  faces,  and  in  their  Simday  clothes.  It  is  a  time 
of  solemn  expectation ;  and  the  teacher,  as  he  walks  up 
and  down,  giving  his  final  directions,  is  a  little  nervous. 
The  three  or  four  clergj-men  who  constitute  the  ex- 
amining committee  at  length  appear.  The  school-room 
is  crowded  with  parents,  who  have  come  to  enjoy  the 
proficiency  of  their  cliildren ;  and  a  heritor  or  two 
may  be  seen,  who  have  sought  a  reflected  happiness  in 
spending  two  or  three  pounds  in  prize-books,  which  will 
make  many  little  liearts  light  and  proud  for  longer  than 
that  one  day.  It  is  whisjjercd  in  tlie  school  that  the 
master  has  got  a  new  coat,  wliich  ap[)ears  to-day  tor  the 
first  time.  The  proceedings  are  opened  with  a  prayer, 
offered  by  one  of  tlie  presiding  ministers ;  then  the 
classes  are  successively  called,  beginning  with  the  young- 
est. Who  could  be  otherwise  than  interested  and 
sympathizing,  when  two  or  three  fluttered  little  things 
come  up  trembling,  and  say  their  ABC,  making  a  host 
of  mistakes,  which  they  never  would  have  made  but  for 
the  awful  presence  of  the  Presbytery  !  Who  but  must 
feel  for  the  poor  cottager's  wife  on  the  back  form,  as 
she  hears  her  little  boy  going  all  wrong  in  what  he  said 
to  her  perfectly  right  an  hour  before  ?  Pat  the  little 
fellow  on  the  head,  and  tell  him   he  is  a  clever  boy  and 


302  SOME   FURTHER   TALK 

has  done  capitally  ;  it  will  tide  him  over  one  tsad  dis- 
appointment of  his  life,  and  the  innocent  fiction  will 
never  rise  up  against  you  elsewhere.  Then  come  the 
reading  classes ;  and  here  you  may  by  degrees  examine 
more  sharply.  Almost  all  read  well  —  of  course  with 
the  broadest  Scotch  accent ;  almost  all  spell  admirably, 
and  most  understand  completely  what  they  read.  The 
reading-books  in  general  use  are  a  series  edited  by  Dr. 
M'CuUoch,  of  Greenock ;  an  excellent  series,  filled  with 
pieces  so  attractive  that  children  will  read  them  for 
their  interest,  and  almost  forget  that  they  are  tasks.  I 
must  confess  that  Avhen  I  have  been  at  school  examina- 
tions, I  have  sometimes  found  myself  reading  Dr. 
M'Culloch  on  my  own  account,  instead  of  attending  to 
the  lesson  that  was  going  forward.  The  children  gener- 
ally exhibit  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  Scripture 
history  ;  and  the  Shorter  Catecldsm,  an  admirable  com- 
pend  of  sound  theology,  and  quite  in  kecjiing  with  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles,  is  at  the  finger-ends  of  all.  Gram- 
mar is  generally  well  taught ;  geography,  sometimes 
extraordinarily  well.  Specimens  of  the  writing  of  the 
pupils,  each  on  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  aie  hung  up 
lound  the  room.  The  Latin  and  Greek  classes  come 
last;  and  the  exhibition  is  wound  up  by  I'ecitations, 
delivered  by  a  iew  of  the  most  distingui.-hed  scholars. 
Sometimes  the  effect  of  these  is  irresistibly  ludicrous. 
A  very  favorite  piece  is  Campbell's  lluluulindcn.  A 
boy  stands  up,  amid  awful  silence,  and  elevating  his 
right  hand  in  the  air,  with  a  face  utterly  blank  of  ex- 
pression, proceeds  to  repeat  the  poem,  accentuating 
very  strongly  every  alternate  syllable,  and  completely 
ignoring  the  points  :  — 


ABOUT   SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  30^ 

"  On  Lunden  whan  the  sahn  was  law 
Ul  bloodless  lah  thuntroaden  snaw 
Und  dark  uz  wuntur  wuz  the  fiaw 
Avizar  roallin  rawpidlah." 

Some  clergymen  pride  themselves  on  their  power  of 
drawing  out  the  intelligence  of  children  by  their  mode 
of  putting  questions  to  them.  And  occasionally  I  have 
Been  this  well  done  ;  more  frequently,  very  absurdly. 
The  following  is  a  specimen  of  a  style  of  examination 
(vhich  I  have  myself  more  than  once  witnessed  :  — 

"  Wahl,  deer  cheldrun,  what  was  it  that  swallowed 
Jonah  ?  Was  it  a  sh-sh-sh-sh-shark  ?  "  —  "  Yahs  ! "  roar 
a  host  of  voices.  "  Noa,  deer  cheldrun,  it  was  not  a 
shark.  Then  was  it  an  al-al-al-allig-allig-alligator  ? " 
"  Yahs  !  "  exclaim  the  voices  again.  ''  Noa,  deer  chel- 
drun, it  was  not  an  alligator.  Then  was  it  a  wh-wh- 
vvh-whaaale  ?  "  "  Noa,"  roar  the  voices,  determined  to 
be  right  this  time.  "  Yahs,  deer  cheldrun,  it  wjis  a 
whale." 

The  prizes  are  distributed  ;  and  then  each  clergymj>u 
in  turn  makes  a  speech,  expressive  of  liis  opinion  of  th'? 
appearance  which  the  scholars  have  made,  and  also  of 
the  skill  and  industry  of  the  teacher.  This  opinion  is 
always  complimentary  ;  and  in  cases  where  teacher  and 
scholars  are  in  an  unsatisfactory  state,  it  is  amusing  to 
witness  the  struggles  of  the  speaker  to  say  something 
wliich  shall  have  a  general  tone  of  compliment,  and  yet 
mean  nothing.  Finally,  one  of  the  examiners  gives  an 
dddress  to  the  children,  inculcating  the  general  doctrine 
that  they  ought  to  be  good  boys  and  mind  their  lessons. 
A  prayer  closes  the  proceedings ;  and  then  the  miuistera 
are  off  to  the  manse  to  dinner. 


304  SOMK    FUIirilKR    TALK 

A  great  mauy  parochial  teachers  add  a  little  to  their 
income  by  holding  certain  small  parish  offices ;  such  as 
those  of  precentor,  session-clerk,  inspector  of  poor,  post- 
master, .and  the  like.  I  have  known  all  these  offices 
accumulated  upon  one  individual.  Many  teachers  are 
very  eccentric  men.  Indeed,  one  would  say  that  no  one 
but  a  rather  singular  being  would  continue  for  thirty 
or  forty  years  in  a  post  entailing  so  much  toil  and  offer- 
ing such  poor  remuneration.  A  short  time  since,  at  a 
school  examination,  I  found  a  large  piece  of  pasteboard, 
bearing  in  a  very  legible  hand  tlie  following  inscription, 
written  by  the  teacher,  and  evidently  intended  to  be 
exhibited  to  the  children  :  — 

"To  Mr.  Smith. 
"  F7'om  a    Correspondent. 

"  Mr.  Smith,  thou  art  gooJ  and  mild, 
Belo\;ed  by  every  little  child, 
Thou  wast   formed  for  usefulness, 
Boj's  to  comfort  and  girls  to  bless." 

You  will  hardly  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  the 
author  of  this  remarkable  poem  was  really  a  very 
efficient  and  successful  teacher  of  young  children  ;  and 
possibly  he  was  quite  correct  in  judging  that  to  exhibit 
such  an  effusion  as  something  which  he  had  received 
from  an  unknown  admirer  would  tend  to  make  his 
pupils  hold  him  in  greater  veneration.  My  observation 
of  many  parochial  schoolmasters  has  led  me  to  the 
belief,  not  oidy  that  a  total  want  of  common  sense  in 
the  affairs  of  ordinary  life  is  quite  com])atible  with  a 
man's  being  an  excellent  teach;'r,  but  even  that  such 
a  Avant  of  common  sense   is   directly  conducive  to  his 


ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIRS.  oOo 

success  as  a  teacher.  I  have  a  theory  by  which  I  think 
I  can  both  prove  aud  exphiin  tliis  somewhat  paradoxical 
opinion  ;  but  I  need  not  bother  you  with  it  here. 

Tlie  very  best  teachers  I  have  ever  known  have  been 
men  of  no  great  extent  of  information,  and  of  no  claims 
to  scholarshijj,  but  who  liave  possessed  a  wonderful 
power  of  communicating  whatever  knowledge  they 
liad  got.  I  l)ave  known  one  or  two  men,  rather 
stupid  and  indiscreet  in  daily  life,  but  who  seemed  to 
become  inspired  wlicn  placed  in  the  presence  of  a  class 
of  boj-s  or  girls  (tor  both  boys  and  girls  are  educated 
at  our  parish  schools),  and  who  displayed  a  positive 
genius  for  putting  all  they  had  to  tell  their  pupils  in  the 
most  attractive  and  striking  sliape.  And  once  or  twice 
1  have  come  across  quaint,  respectable  old  characters, 
wlio  have  kept  school  ibr  fifty  or  sixty  years,  content  in 
their  humble  and  useful  vocation  ;  much  given  to  quoting 
Latin,  especially  in  speaking  to  persons  who  did  not 
understarid  it;  treasuring  up  a  little  store  of  old  classi- 
cal autliors  ill  usuin  Delpldni,  one  of  which  you  miglit 
find  tliem  reading  in  their  garden  on  a  summer  day  : 
fond  of  talking  about  their  old  days  at  college,  three- 
score years  since  ;  and  recounting  with  pride  how  they 
hud  beaten,  in  the  Latin  class  at  St.  Andrews,  men  who 
had  become  the  dignitaries  of  the  kirk,  the  bar,  aud  the 
bench  ;  or  how  they  had  lived  ibr  a  terra  in  the  same 
lodgings  with  Smith,  who  became  physician  to  the  Court 
of  St.  Petersburg ;  with  Brown,  who  rose  to  be  Prime 
Minister  to  the  King  of  Ashautee  ;  or  with  Reid,  who 
arrived  at  tlie  dignity  of  an  Austrian  marshal.  And 
philosophic  men  like  you  and  me  may  perhaps  bethink 
us,  that  to  a  Scotchman,  with  his  yearning  to  the  land 

T 


306  SOME   FURTIIER   TALK 

of  the  mountain  and  flie  flood,  it  may  have  proved  a 
less  happy  lot  to  lise  to  wordly  honor  I'ar  away,  than  to 
cuiF  the  ears  and  win  the  hearts  of  many  generations 
of  school-boys,  and  to  he  the  oracle  of  the  neighborhood, 
the  iirst  man  in  his  native  village. 

I  have  already  said  that  the  close  of  the  school  ex- 
amination-day is  a  dinner  at  the  manse,  to  which  the 
schoolmasters  are  always  asked,  in  addition  to  the 
clergymen  who  acted  as  examiners.  I  particularly  en- 
joy dining  with  my  parisli  clergymen  on  the  days  of  the 
school  examinalions.  I  meet  several  of  the  neighboring 
clergy  wlio  would  please  yon  greatly  ;  and  I  listen  with 
a  fresh  interest  to  their  conversation  about  church  and 
college  affairs.  It  opens  a  new  field  to  me.  I  hear  a 
great  deal  of  men  who,  like  the  dinner  of  tlie  Derby, 
are  great  in  their  own  sphere,  but  quite  unknown  to  the 
world  beyond  it.  I  remember  your  telling  me  that  you 
had  never  heard  of  our  great  preacher  Caird  till  his 
sermon  was  published  some  months  ago  by  the  Queen's 
command.  And  I  could  mention  the  names  of  a  score 
of  Scotch  preachers  and  proi'essors,  all  great  men  in 
their  way,  but  as  unknown  to  you  as  is  the  name  of  the 
cook  of  the  King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands.  Now  I  like 
to  hear  about  these  men.  I  like  to  get  an  insight  into 
a  new  set  of  interests  and  a  new  mode  of  li!e.  I  like 
to  get  a  view  of  the  Scotch  character  from  a  stand-point 
different  from  my  own. 

On  such  an  occasion  lately,  I  listened  to  much  lamen- 
tation «voi-  the  pnwkiness  and  want  of  straightforward- 
ness which  are  found  in  many  country  districts.  Apropos 
of  this,  a  minister  who  was  present  related  how  a  coun- 
try clergyman  who  died  within  the  last  twenty  years, 


ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFA.IES.  307 

one  Sunday  astonished  his  congregation  in  the  following 
manner.  lie  announced  his  text  with  much  solemnity. 
It  ran  thus : — 

I  said  in  my  haste,  All  men  are  liars. 

Having  read  this  verse  twice  with  great  emphasis,  he 
proceeded  with  his  sermon  in  an  abstracted  and  medita- 
tive tone.  "  Ay,  David,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  said  that 
in  your  haste,  did  you?  Git"  you  had  leeved  in  this 
parish,  you  would  have  said  it  at  your  leisure  ! " 

"  To  sliow  3"ou,"  said  another  clergyman,  "  how  little 
feeling  many  persons,  even  of  respectable  standing,  have, 
that  there  is  anything  immoral  in  a  falsehood  told  in  the 
way  of  business,  I  will  tell  you  what  occurred  to  myself 
when  I  came  to  my  parish.  Like  every  minister  with 
an  extensive  parish,  I  wanted  a  horse.  I  mentioned  my 
need  to  a  highly  rcsi)ectable  farmer,  who  told  me  that 
b)'-  great  good  luck  he  knew  where  I  could  be  suited  at 
once.  At  a  farm  a  few  miles  off  there  was  for  sale  just 
such  an  animal  as  I  wanted.  I  said  that  I  should  lose 
no  time  in  going  over  to  see  the  hor.-e  in  question.  '  Xa, 
na,  sir,'  said  my  friend,  with  a  look  of  remarkable 
shrewdness;  '  na,  mi,  that  \y\\{  never  do.  If  you  were 
to  gang  over  and  say  you  wanted  the  beast,  the  farmer 
would  put  an  extra  ten  or  lilteen  pounds  on  his  price. 
But  I'll  tell  you  what  we '11  do.  To-morrow  forenoon 
I'll  drive  you  over  to  the  farm,  and  I'll  say  to  the  farm- 
er, '  This  is  Mr.  Green,  our  new  minister ;  I  was  jist 
gieing  him  a  bit  drive  to  see  the  country.  And  as  we 
gaed  by  your  house  jist  by  chance,  I  telled  him  that  you 
had  a  bit  beast  to  sell ;  and  although  I  didiia  think  it 
wad  suit  him  ava',  yet  it  might  do  no  harm  to  look  at  it 
at  ony  rate.     He  wasna'  lor  comin'  in,  the  minister,  for 


308  SOME    FURTHER   TALK 

lie  Ii;i(lna  time;  but  ^Ye  have  ji.st  come  in  for  .if  minute, 
and  if  the  beast 's  at  hame,  ye  can  let  us  see 't ;  but  if 
no,  it  (loesna  matter  a  grain.'  Noo,  if  I  ^ny  that  to  him, 
he'll  thinli  \vc  dinna  heed  aboot  the  beast,  and  lie '11  no 
raise  the  [trice  o't.'  I  was  quite  surprised  that  a  man  of 
good  cliaracter  should  propose  to  a  clergyman  to  become 
his  accomplice  in  a  plan  of  trickery  and  falsehood  ;  but 
when  I  recovered  breatli,  I  told  my  man  exactly  what  I 
thought  of  his  proposal,  and  said  1  should  want  a  horse 
for  ever  rather  than  jrct  one  by  telling  a  score  of  lies. 
But  my  friend  was  quite  unabashed  by  my  rebuke,  and 
evidently  thought  I  was  a  young  man  of  Quixotic  no- 
tions of  honor,  of  which  a  little  longer  experience  of  Ufe 
would  iiaitpily  rid  me." 

1  was  amused  l)y  a  story  I  heard  at  the  same  time,  of 
a  simple-minded  country  jiarson,  whoso  parish  lay  upon 
the  Friih  of  Clyde,  and  so  became  gradually  overspread 
with  fashionable  villas,  to  which  faniilies  from  Edinburgh 
and  Glasgow  resorted  in  summer  and  autumn.  This 
worthy  man  persisted  in  exercising  the  same  spiritual 
jurisdiction  over  these  new-comers  which  he  had  been 
wont  to  exercise  over  his  rustic  parishioners  before  their 
arrival.  And  in  particular,  in  his  pastoral  visitations, 
he  insisted  on  examining  the  lady  and  gentleman  of  the 
house  in  The  Shorter  Catechism,  in  the  presence  of  their 
children  and  servants.  It  haj^pened,  one  autumn,  that 
the  late  Lord  JeflTrc}',  after  the  lising  of  the  Court  of 
Session,  came  to  spend  the  long  vacation  in  the  parish 

of  L .     Soon  after  his  arrival,  the  minister  intimated 

from  the  puljtit  that  upon  a  certain  day  he  would  "hold 
a  diet  of  catechising"  in  the  district  wdiich  included  the 
dwelling  of  the  eminent  judge.     True  to  his  time,  he 


ABOUT   SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  309 

app^.lred  at  Lord  Jeffrey's  house,  and  requested  that  the 
3ntire  establishment  might  be  collected.  This  was  read- 
ily done;  for  almost  all  Scotch  clergymen,  though  the 
catechising  process  has  become  obsolete,  still  visit  each 
house  in  the  parish  once  a  year,  and  collect  the  family 
to  listen  to  a  tireside  lecture.  But  what  wa^  Lord  Jef- 
frey's consternation  when,  the  entire  household  being 
assembled  in  the  drawing-i-oom,  the  worthy  minister  said 
in  a  solemn  voice,  "My  Lord,  I  always  begin  my  exam- 
ination with  the  head  of  the  family.  Will  30U  tell  me, 
then,  '"What  is  Ellcclual  Calling?'"  Never  was  an 
Edinburgh  Reviewer  more  thoroughly  nonplussed.  After 
a  pause,  during  which  the  servants  looked  on  in  horror 
at  the  thought  that  a  judge  should  not  know  his  Cate- 
chisvi,  his  lordship  recovered  speech,  and  answered  the 
question  in  terms  which  con)i)letely  dumbfounded  the 
minister,  "  Why,  ]\Ir.  Smith,  a  man  may  be  said  to 
discharge  the  duties  of  his  calling  effectually  when  he 
l)erforms  them  with  ability  and  success."* 

As  I  was  writing  these  last  words,  the  word  Episco- 
pacy caught  my  ear ;  and  looking  up,  I  observed  a  cler- 
gyman, unknown  to  me,  addressing  the  House.  The 
matter  at  the  moment  under  discussion  was  son?e  bill 
which  it  is  projjosed  to  introduce  into  Parliament  to  re- 

*  To  explain  Mr.  Smith's  coiistenuxtion  to  nn  English  re;\dor,  it 
niaj-  be  well  to  give  the  question  and  answer  in  the  form  in  which 
they  are  familiar  to  young  Scotland. 

Qwstwn. —  What  is  Kffectual  Calling? 

Answer.  —  Kflectual  Calling  is  the  work  of  God's  Spirit,  whereby, 
convincing  us  of  our  sin  and  misery,  eniigiitening  our  minds  in  the 
knowledge  of  Christ,  and  renewing  our  wills,  ho  doth  jjersnade  and 
enable  u*  to  embrace  Jesus  Christ,  freely  oflered  to  us  in  the  Gospel. 


310  SOME   FURTHER   TALK 

inove  tlie  disabilities  of  Scotch  Episcopal  ministers.  The 
speaker,  \\ho  spoke  in  the  main  smartly  and  cleverly, 
was  evidently  one  of  the  last  who  cling  to  what  may  be 
called  Presbyterian  Puseyism.  His  speech  manife-ted 
an  enmity  to  jirelatic  government  jnst  snch  as  many  men 
in  England  bear  towards  Pi'esbyterian.  "  The  bishops 
of  the  Scotch  Epi.sco])al  Church,"  said  he,  "  illegally 
take  to  themselves  territorial  titles,  and  call  themselves 
the  Bishops  of  Glasgow,  of  Aberdeen,  and  so  forth. 
Well,  who  cares  ?  They  have  precisely  tiie  same  right 
to  these  designations  as  the  pickpockets  who  are  taken 
before  the  London  police-magistrates  have  to  the  aliases 
which  ihey  assume.  And  if  a  Scotch  soi-disant  bishop 
chooses  to  wear  an  apron,  what  liave  we  to  do  witii  that? 
He  is  just  as  much  entitled  to  wear  a  bit  of  silk  as  any 
other  old  woman.  But  if  lie  goes  to  the  pulpit  with  a 
cap,  then  indeed  we  have  some  reason  to  complain ;  for 
all  things  considered,  it  is  unjustifiable  that  the  cap 
should  not  be  provided  with  bells."  The  intemperate 
speech  of  this  gentleman  was  succeeded  by  a  very  judi- 
cious and  excellent  one  from  Mr.  Sherilf  Tait,  the  brother 
of  the  Bishop  of  London ;  and  the  Assembly  came  to 
some  decision  which  I  remember  appeared  to  me  a  sen- 
sible one,  but  I  have  not  tlie  faintest  recollection  what  it 
was. 

But  the  little  incident  gave  a  new  direction  to  my 
thoughts,  and  set  me  thiidcing  upon  the  singular  phase 
of  feeling  wliich  has  prevailed  for  some  years  in  the 
Scotch  Church.  The  horror  of  Episcopal  government 
and  ritual  which  prevailed  in  the  minds  of  the  foundei'S 
of  the  Kirk  was  indescribal)ly  great.  Not  far  from  my 
door  is  the  burying-place  of  two  men  who  were  hanged 


ABOUT    SCOTCH   AFFAIRS.  311 

in  the  persecuting  daj's  ;  and  the  inscription  on  the  stone 
(which  was  often  touched  np  by  Old  Mortality)  stntes 
that  they  died  to  bear  witness  "against  Tyranny,  Per- 
jury, and  Prelacy."  And  in  the  iniud  oS'  most  Scotch- 
men then,  and  in  the  mind  of  the  lower  orders  yet, 
Prelacy  is  held  in  precisely  the  estimation  which  }oii 
mav  infer  from  the  connection  in  which  it  stands  there. 
A  liturgy  and  a  bishop  were  regarded  as  emanations 
i'rom  the  Devil.  Yet  now,  singular  to  say,  the  Scotch 
Church  contains  a  body  of  cliM-gymen,  considerable  in 
point  of  numbers  and  pre-eminent  in  point  of  talent, 
which  you  would  say  at  once  had  a  strong  Episcopal 
bias. 

It  would  be  invidious  to  mention  names,  bnt  I  ven- 
ture to  say  that  if  you  go  to  hear  five  out  of  six  of  our 
most  distinguished  preaidiers,  you  will  find  their  prayers 
taken  almost  entirely  from  the  Anglican  liturgy,  or  from 
the  writings  of  the  men  who  drew  up  the  Anglican  litur- 
gy. If  you  should  happen  to  converse  with  the  ablest 
and  most  cultivated  of  the  Scotch  clergy,  you  will  iind 
that  the  wi.sh  for  a  liturgy  is  deeply  felt,  and  almost 
universal.  I  was  informed  within  the  hist  week  that 
one  of  the  most  conspicuous  of  the  pari.sh  clergymen  of 
Edinburgli  has  compiled  a  liturgy  for  use  in  his  own 
church,  whith  he  intesids  to  print  and  place  in  the  hands 
of  the  congregation.  There  is  a  strong  anil  growing  sense 
among  the  educated  people  of  Scotland  that  the  Kefoima- 
tion  in  this  country  went  a  great  deal  too  far,  that  the 
ritual  has  been  made  repulsively  bare  and  bald,  and  that 
many  tilings  were  tal;ooed  for  their  association  with 
Poperv,  which  formed  no  put  of  its  essence,  and  are 
founded  upon  feelings  and  principles  which  are  integral 


312  SOMK   FURTHER   TALK 

parts  of  man's  liijzher  luiture.  There  is  a  strong  sense  in 
this  country  that  it  was  extremely  absurd  and  wi-ong  to 
refuse  any  recognition  to  the  festivals  of  the  Christian 
year.  There  is  a  very  general  wish  for  some  prescribed 
form  of  the  marriage  and  baptism  service.  There  is  an 
urgent  demand  for  the  intnxluctiou  of  a  burial  service ; 
and  indeed  to  any  one  wdio  has  often  listened  to  the 
beautiful  words  o^'  hope  and  consolation  which  in  your 
country  are  breathed  over  a  Christian  grave,  there  is 
something  inexpressibly  revolting  in  the  Scotch  fashion 
of  laying  our  friends  down  in  their  last  resting-place 
without  one  Christian  word,  —  without  a  syllable  to  tell 
in  what  belief  we  lay  them  there,  or  a  prayer  that  we, 
when  our  day  comes,  ''  through  tlie  grave,  and  gate  of 
death,  may  pass  to  our  joylul  resurrection."  And 
there  is  a  strong  movement,  which  is  rigidly  opposed  by 
the  ignorant  and  prejudiced,  towards  true  ecclesiastical 
architecture.  Stained  glass,  which  would  have  been 
smashed  half  a  century  ago,  is  conmion  in  large  towns ; 
and  the  use  of  the  organ  is  evidently  a]>proaching.  One 
hears  it  often  wished  that  the  congregation,  who  now  eit 
silent  through  the  entire  service  (except  joining  in  the 
Psalms),  should  at  least  respond  t^o  far  as  to  utter 
Amen  at  the  end  of  the  prayers ;  ami  very  many  of  the 
clergy  take  pains  to  have  the  whole  worship  of  God 
conducted  with  an  order  and  di'cency  whicli  the  genera- 
tion before  last  would  assuredly  have  thought  carnal  and 
legal  abomination.  The  late  Sir  Henry  Moucrief,  who 
was  minister  of  the  West  Church  of  Edinburgh,  used  to 
walk  up  to  his  pulpit  every  Sunday  with  his  hat  on  his 
head,  to  testify  to  the  grand  Knoxite  doctrine  that  no 
reverence  is  due  to  stone  and  lime ;    but  any  such  pro- 


ABOUT   SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  313 

cecdincc  now  woulrl  excite  just  as  much  disgust  for  the 
pitrheadedness  of  the  individual  that  did  it,  in  Scotland, 
as  it  would  among  you. 

One  hears  occasionally  of  amusing  instances  of  the 
pursuit  of  order  under  ditficulties  by  the  younger  clergy. 
I  heard  of  such  a  case  the  other  day.  The  Scotch  mar- 
riage service,  you  must  know,  is  a  very  brief  one.  It  is 
always  performed  by  a  single  clergyman,  who  very 
rarely  appears  in  canonicals.  Two  young  clergymen, 
curates  of  a  town  in  the  west  of  Scotland,  both  (for  I 
know  them  well)  accomplished  and  able  men,  resolved 
to  be  the  first  to  introduce  a  more  imposing  method. 
Accordingly,  one  of  them  having  been  asked  to  celebrate 
a  marriage  in  town,  both  went  to  the  place,  arrayed  in 
gown  and  band.  One  of  them  gave  the  very  short  ad- 
dress upon  matrimonial  duties  which  forms  part  of  the 
service,  and  the  other  offered  the  prayers  and  received 
the  declarations  of  the  wedded  couple.  The  parties,  I 
believe,  regard  themselves  as  the  only  couple  in  Drums- 
leekie  who  ever  were  effectually  and  sufficiently  mar- 
ried ;  but  dire  was  the  wrath  of  the  true-blue  Presbyte- 
rians of  the  place. 

Now  what  is  tlie  meaning  of  all  tliis?  You  must 
not  fancy,  my  dear  editor,  tliat  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  is 
growing  ripe  for  amalgamation  with  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. Some  members  of  what  you  might  call  the  Epis- 
copising  party  in  the  Scotch  Church  are  really  anxious  for 
union  with  the  Anglican  Church  ;  but  by  far  the  greater 
number  of  its  adh(n-ents  repudiate  any  such  aim,  and  hold 
stoutly  by  Presbyterian  Church-government.  Thoy  say 
that  they  are  striving  for  greater  projiricty  and  or- 
der in  the  worship  of  God;  they  maintain  that  although 
14 


314  SOMK   FURTHER   TALK 

Presbytery  lias  generally  been  associated  with  an  nn- 
liturgical  worsliipand  a  bald  ritnal,  there  is  no  necessary 
connexion  between  them  ;  and  they  hold  that,  witiiout 
going  tlie  length  of  P^piscopal  government,  they  may 
borrow  from  the  Anglican  Chnrch  its  architectnre,  its 
prayers,  its  baptismal  and  burial  services.  They  will 
take,  they  say,  whatever  they  tliink  good  in  itself,  with- 
out thinking  it  has  been  contaminated  by  the  touch  of 
Prelac3\  The  Pni'itan  reformers,  on  the.  contrary,  never 
thought  of  considering  any  right  or  usage  on  its  own 
merits.  The  simple  question  was,  lias  this  been  ob- 
served in  the  Episcopal  Church  ?  And  if  it  had  been 
obsei'ved  there,  that  was  quite  sullicieut.  Right  or 
wrong,  it  was  sent  packing.  It  would  amuse  you  to  see 
how  exactly  many  of  the  most  evangelical  of  the  Scotch 
clergy,  who  never  fail  to  denounce  Puseyism  as  sometliing 
dreadful,  have  copied  the  every-day  di-ess  which  we  are 
accustomed  to  consider  the  mark  of  Puseyism.  I  look 
up  now,  and  glance  rountl  the  Assembly  Hall.  A  few 
years  ago,  the  regular  Scotch  clerical  attire  was  a  dress- 
coat  and  a  waistcoat  revealing  abundance  of  linen.  But 
now  I  see  nothing  but  those  silk  waistcoats,  buttoning  to 
the  throat,  which  I  am  told  tailors  designate  as  the  M. 
li.,  or  ]\Iark  of  the  lieast;  long  frock-coats,  many  of 
them  devoid  of  collars;  plain  white  bands  round  the 
neck,  devoid  of  tie  of  aii\  kind;  and  cheeks  from  which 
the  whiskers  have  l)cen  reaped.  And  did  not  that  good 
old  gentleman,  Proilijssor  Robertson,  when  summoned  in 
to  take  the  chair  of  this  Assembly,  enter  in  full  canoni- 
cals (which  all  moderators  do),  but  wearing  lavcn<ler 
kid  gloves  (which  no  moderator  ever  did  before)  ?  Some 
of  the  quaint  old  ministers  from  the  Highlands   shook 


ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIRS.  315 

their  hetvis  at  the  sight,  and  lioped  we  might  not  all  be 
Prelatists  soon  ! 

As  to  the  alva;itage.  and  indeed  the  necessity,  of  a 
liturgy,  I  think  there  cannot  be  two  opinions  among  un- 
prejudiced men.  If  you  had  attended  a  Scotch  cliurch, 
as  1  have  done,  for  ten  years,  you  would  know  what  a 
horrid  tiling  it  is  to  see  a  stupid,  vulgar  fellow  entering 
tlie  pulpit,  and  to  think  that  that  man  is  to  interpret  and 
express  your  deepest  wants  for  that  day's  worship.  It 
is,  indeed,  a  very  hard  task  for  even  an  able,  a  pious, 
and  a  judicious  man  to  make  new  prayers  each  Sunday, 
suited  to  convey  the  confessions,  thanksgivings,  and  sup- 
plications of  a  congregation  of  his  fellow-men  ;  yet  I 
have  known  this  so  well  and  beautifully  done,  that  for 
one  dav  I  did  not  miss  the  liturgy,  dear  to  mi'  a-^  it  is. 
But  yon  cannot  count  for  certain  upon  each  one  of 
twelve  or  fourtceii  hundred  men  being  possessed  of  com- 
mon sense;  and  when  you  tliiuk  of  the  painful  an  1  re- 
volting consequences  of  allowing  a  blockhead  to  coiuhi  t 
l)ublic  prayer  at  his  own  discretion,  you  will  feel  what  a 
blessing  it  would  be  if  some  standard  were  ])Ut  in  tiie 
liands  of  the  clergy  tiiat  would  assure  us  of  decency.  It 
is  only  just  to  say  that  the  prayers  one  generally  heui-s 
in  Scotch  churches  are  wonderfully  respectable.  They 
are  sometimes,  indeed,  i-ather  sermons  or  lectures  tha:i 
pravers  ;  and  are  spoken  at  tlie  congregation  rather  than 
to  the  Almighty.  And  the  trutli  is,  that  even  in  Scot- 
land, where  every  minister  prejiares  his  own  prayers, 
and  where  the  prayers  are  very  frequently  hind  fide  ex- 
temporaneous, there  is  a  sort  of  traditional  liturgy  ;  a 
floating  mass  of  stock  phrases  of  prayer  ;  ami  eacli  young 
man  who  goes   into  the  Cimrch  takes  up  the  kind   of 


316  SOME   FUCTIIKR   TALK 

strain  \vlii('h  lie  ha>  been  accustomed  to  liear  all  his  life, 
and  carries  it  on.  If  you  hear  a  decent,  comixion])lace, 
rather  stupid  Scotch  minister  pray,  every  separate  sen- 
tence of  tlie  prayer  would  fall  quite  familiarly  on  your 
oar,  if  you  were  a  Scotchman.  It  is  the  regulai"  old 
thing,  only  the  component  parts  a  little  shuflied.  Where 
the  preacher  is  a  senseless  and  tasteless  boor,  of  couree 
his  prayers  are  in  keeping.  I  have  sometimes  had  an  in- 
tense wish  to  thi'ow  something  at  the  head  of  some  vul- 
gar blockhead  who  was  pouring  forth  a  tide  of  unintelli- 
gible balderdasli,  in  the  name  of  a  congregation  of  ])lain 
country  folk,  who  could  not  understand,  and  still  less 
join  in,  one  syllable  of  the  efl'u.sion.  To  show  you  that 
I  am  not  saying  this  without  reason,  I  quote  a  passage 
from  a  review  of  a  work,  entitled  Enlaxia^  or  tJie  Pres- 
bi/terian  Liturgies,  which  appeared  in  a  Scotch  Church 
periodical  edited  by  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  Scotch 
ministers : — 

"  AVhat  a  contrast  between  those  prayers  of  Calvin  and 
the  ungi-aminatieal,  niiprayerful  exliil)itions  which  are  some- 
timos  lioard  in  the  ])iilpit!  It  would  be  a  shame  to  many 
ministers  to  rush  into  the  presence  of  their  eartlily  superiors 
as  they  iu.sh  into  the  jjresence  of  their  God.  The  prayers  of 
many  betray  an  utter  want  of  preparation,  and  even  of  active 
tliought  at  the  time  of  their  utterance,  as  is  evident  from  the 
almost  absurd  phrases  whicli  have  become  stereotyped  forms, 
and  which  are  poured  forth  every  Sabbath  in  our  pulpit.-;. 
We  give  one  instance  wliich  we  liave  no  doubt  all  will  recog- 
nize :  "  We  come  before  Thee,  with  our  hands  on  our 
mouths,  and  our  mouths  in  the  dust,  crying  out,"  &c.,  while 
if  one's  liand  is  either  on  liis  mouth,  or  his  mouth  in  the  dust, 
crying  out  is  out  of  the  question,  and  much  more  so  if  both 
happen  at  once.     We  recollect  a  worthy  who  was  in  the 


ABOUT   SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  317 

habit  of  (lovontly  praying  "  that  the  time  might  soon  come 
•when  Satan  shouUl  be  sent  far  hence,  even  unto  the  Gen- 
tiles " ;  and  this  is  a  type  of  too  many  of  the  stock  phrases 
which  are  repeated  in  the  sanctuary."  * 

Tliere  is  no  respect  in  whicli  Scotch  prayers  generally 
are  so  bad  as  in  that  most  important  article,  the  confes- 
sion of  sin.  One  would  say  that  in  sucii  a  case  the 
simplest  and  n-iost  direct  way  of  acknowledging  unwor- 
tliiness  would  be  the  fittest;  we  do  not  know  anything 
better  than  the  familiar  "We  have  left  undone  those 
things  which  we  ought  to  have  done,  and  we  have  done 
those  things  which  we  ougiit  not  to  have  done."  But 
some  preachers  appear  to  think  that  confession  should 
be  set  forth  with  sacred  imagery,  and  accordingly  ex- 
press this  part  of  prayer  in  terms  which  I  believe  con- 
vey no  clear  idea  to  plain  people.  I  have  often  heard 
such  sentences  as  the  following:  — 

"  We  were  planted  as  trees  of  righteousness,  but  we 
have  yielded  the  grapes  of  Sodom,  and  the  clusters  of 
Gomorrah." 

A  still  greater  favorite  is  the  following:  — 

"  We  have  turned  away  Irom  the  fomitain  of  living 
waters ;  and  we  have  hewn  out  to  ourselves  cisterns, 
broken  cisterns,  that  can  hold  no  water." 

]My  linal  instance  to  sliow  what  prayer  may  come  to, 
when  intrusted,  witiiout  any  dii-cctory,  to  each  individ- 
ual of  a  "reat  luunber  of  men.  shall  be  the  bctrinning  of 
a  prayer  whicii,  I  was  told  by  a  thoroughly  credible 
friend,  he  himself  heard  delivered  from  a  Scotch  pul- 
pit: — 

"O  God,  Thou  hast  made  the  sun.     0  God.  Thou 

*  EdinbuKjh  Christian  Magazine,  p.  1-46,  August,  1S56. 


318  SOME   rURTHKU   TALK 

hast  made  the  inoon.  Tliou  hast  made  the  stars.  Thou 
hast  also  hkkIc  the  koaniits,  wheeh,  in  their  ecceiitrio 
oarbits  in  tiie  immensity  of  spaee,  occasionally  approtch 
so  neer  the  sun,  that  they  are  in  imminent  danger  of 
beino:  veetrifoyd. " 

I  heartily  wish,  my  dear  editor,  that  you  could  send 
down  to  the  Scotch  Kirk  a  number  of  those  clever, 
accomplished  young  Oxford  and  Cambridge  men  who 
wish  to  devote  themselves  to  dercial  labor,  and  who, 
from  want  of  interest,  will  never  get  more  than  eighty 
pounds  a  year  in  the  English  Church.  We  can  hold 
out  pretty  fair  inducements  to  such ;  and  we  need  them 
sorely.  The  Scotch  Church  furnishes  a  remarkable 
proof  of  the  soundne-s  of  Sydney  Smith's  views,  that  if 
you  cannot  make  all  the  livings  of  the  Church  prizes,  it 
is  better  to  have  a  ])roportion  of  prizes  and  many  blanks, 
than  to  reduce  all  benefices  to  a  decent  mediocrity. 
True,  Sydney's  plan  may  not  tend  to  secure  the  happi- 
ness of  the  working  clergy,  but  it  assuredly  tends  to  lead 
a  superior  class  of  men  to  enter  the  Church,  each  man 
hoping  that  he  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  draw  a  prize. 
I  have  heard  wietched  trash  talked,  to  th&  effect  that 
the  right  course  to  get  a  disinterested  and  unworldly 
clergy  is  to  offer  no  temporal  inducements  to  choose  the 
clerical  profession ;  and  when  heritors  resist  a  minister's 
getting  an  increase  of  his  stipend  (each  minister  is 
entitled  to  apply  for  what  is  called  an  anc/mentation 
every  twenty  years),  they  are  accustomed  to  quote  with 
high  approval  the  dictum  of  some  old  noodle  of  a  judge 
in  past  days,  that  "a  puir  (poor)  church  is  a  pure 
church.''     Nothing  can  be  more  absurd.     Cut  down  the 


ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIES.  319 

livings  of  any  church  to  wliat  you  choose,  and  you  will 
have  just  as  many  men  entering  its  service  from  merce- 
nar}^  motives  as  ever.  All  you  will  have  secured  will 
be  that  your  recruit.-:  Avill  be  men  of  a  lower  class,  to 
whom  a  .'■mailer  provision  is  an  inducement.  Fix  all 
the  livings  of  tlie  Church  of  England  at  thirty  pounds  a 
year  each,  and  you  will  have  no  lack  of  men  eager  to 
get  them  ;  but  tliey  will  be  thirty  pounds  a  year  men. 

Now,  it  is  a  fact  which  cannot  be  denied,  that 
although  there  are  very  many  exceptions  to  the  state- 
ment, tlie  majority  of  tlie  Scotch  clergy  are  drawn  from 
the  lower  ranks  of  society,  and  many  of  them  testify,  by 
tlieir  a])pearance  and  their  entire  lack  of  that  undefina' 
ble  but  keenly-l'elt  quality  which  marks  the  gentleman. 
that  they  have  not  in  any  degree  acquired  that  polish 
which  the  humblest  origin  is  no  bar  against  a  man's 
attaining.  As  I  look  round  this  General  Assembly, 
although  the  effect  on  the  wliole  is  good,  and  the  princi- 
pal places,  witii  one  or  two  exceptions,  are  filled  by  men 
fitted  to  adorn  any  circle  of  society,  I  yet  am  grieved  to 
see  here  and  there  great  loutish  boors  bursting  out  occa- 
sionally into  horse-laughter,  or  apjiarently  desirous  of 
putting  tlieir  hands  and  feet  in  their  pockets,  who  never 
ought  to  have  been  in  tlie  Church,  who  cannot  be  sup- 
posed capalde  of  maintaining  the  respect  of  even  their 
humblest  parishioners,  and  whom  the  srpiire  of  the  par- 
ish would  only  make  unhappy  by  asking  to  his  tabic 
when  he  had  anything  but  a  second-chop  party  and  en- 
tertainment. 

Now,  I  say  it  most  sincerely,  God  forbid  that  I 
should  think  less  of  a  man  of  talent  and  piety,  though  of 
ever  so  humble  origin.     I  must  add,  however,  that  so 


320  SOME  FURTHER   TALK 

far  as  mv  own  ex])cri(Mice  has  gone,  the  talent  and  piety 
and  practical  usefulness  of  the  Church  are  found  ahno?t 
exclusively  ninong  its  gentlemen.  And  you  and  I  know- 
well  how  nuicli  a  man's  manners  affect  the  estimation  in 
which  the  world  holds  him.  You  don't  like  to  be  told 
of  your  sins  by  a  man  wliom  nature  made  for  Idacking 
your  boot*;  for  1  don't  hesitate  to  assert  that  ahnost  all 
these  recruits  from  the  lowest  orders  are  as  deficient  in 
talent  as  they  are  in  social  standing.  I  do  not  like  to 
tliink  that  the  spiritual  interests  of  the  country  are  to  be 
committed  to  an  inferior  class  of  men  ;  and  we  know  that 
Holy  Writ  speaks  with  no  ai)proval  of  ancient  kings 
who  "made  priests  of  the  lowest  of  the  people."  To 
show  you  that  I  am  not  singular  in  this  feeling,  I  quote 
another  passage  from  tlie  article  already  rei'erred  to:  — 

"  What  can  be  more  disgusting  tlian  to  go  into  a  church 
where  the  pews  are  filled  with  people  of  rcfiiiemtMit,  who  are 
accustomed  everywhere  else  to  order  and  duiciuy,  and  to  see 
in  the  pulpit,  the  centre  of  attraction,  the  cynosure  of  eyes, 
the  minister  of  God,  a  coarse  vulgarian  who  oujiht  to  liave 
remained  in  tlie  sphere  in  wliicli  he  was  converted?  Piety 
and  earnestness  make  up  for  great  defects;  still,  a  clergy- 
man, wlietlier  his  paiishioners  be  coalheavers,  or  the  elite  of 
a  cultivated  city,  sliould  always  be  a  gentleman  and  a  man 
of  taste."* 

And  now  you  will  be  surprised  to  be  told  that  the 
livings  of  the  Scotch  Church  average  somewhat  more 
than  those  of  the  Church  of  England.  Ay,  cast  in 
your  archbishoprics,  bishoprics,  deaneries,  and  rich  rec- 
tories, then  strike  an  average,  apportioning   an   equal 

*  Edinburgh  Christian  Mnr/azine,  p.  177,  September,  1S5G.  This 
masfiizine  is  (avowedly)  edited  by  the  Rev.  Norman  MacLeod,  of 
Glasgow. 


ABOUT   SCOTCH  AFFAIES.  321 

sbare  to  each  care  of  souls  iu  England,  and  yet  Scot- 
land,  with   very  few    livings    approaching   a   thousand 
a  year,  will  yield  a  larger  annual  share  to  each  of  her 
charges.     The  average  of  the  Kirk  is,  I  am  told,  about 
two  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  a  year,  with  residence. 
And  interest  with  patrons  has  little  to  do  with  a  man's 
advance  here.     A  young  fellow,  with  a  talent  for  popu- 
lar preaching,  may  very  reasonably  expect,  by  the  time 
he  is  seven  or  eight  and  twenty,  to  be  settled  in  a  snug 
manse,  with  an  income  of  three  or  four  hundred  a  year. 
"Wliy  is  it  that  this  does  not  tempt  into  clerical  service 
those  younger  sons  of  gentlemen  who  are  content  to 
pinch  themselves  for  years  as  briefless  barristers,  or  en 
signs  and  lieutenants  tossed  about  the  world  with  the 
chance  of  being  shot,  or  clerks  in   government  offices 
with  an  annual  eighty  pounds  ?     The  answer  must  be, 
that  the  Church  can  hold  out  nothing  iurther.     A  man 
cannot   get   higher.       Tlie    briefless    barrister    may   be 
chief  justice  of  England;    the   ensign    may  become    a 
peer  ;  (he  counting-house  clerk,  a  millionnaire.     Not  one 
in  ten  thousand  will,  but  one  in  twenty  thousand  must; 
and  each  hopes  that  he  himself  is  to  be  the  lucky  man. 
Now  this,  I  take  it,  is  one  great  advantage  of  Episco- 
pacy.     It  provides   aims  for   honorable   ambition.      It 
holds  out  pri/.es  which  induce  men  of  first-class  social 
position  to  enter  the  Church.     A  man  of  the  higliest 
talent  may  enter  an  episcopal    church    without  feeling 
that  he  is  practising  the  unworldly  self-denial  of  a  iNIar- 
tyu.     Between  ourselves,  my  dear  friend,  notwitlistand- 
ing  all  we  used  to  talk  long  ago  at  Oxford,  I  am  quite 
satisfied  that  a  church  may  be  a  church  though  it  have 
no  bishops  ;  and  notwithstanding  my  Anglican  up-bring-- 
11*  u 


t>22  vSOMH    FURTHER   TALK 

ing,  I  tliink  it  my  duty,  living  in  Scotland,  to  maintain 
(so  far  as  I  can)  tlie  cliuich  of  the  countiy ;  and  iu  the 
Cluirch  of  Scotland  I  siiall  be  content  to  die.  I  am  not 
snre,  if  I  were  a  clertiyman,  that  I  shonld  mncii  like  to 
be  ordered  about  by  some  cross-grained,  crotchety  old 
gentleman,  neither  wiser,  better,  nor  more  learned  than 
myself,  even  if  he  were  my  bishop.  And  yet  I  see 
great  good  in  P^piscopacy ;  and  1  see  it  all  the  more  lor 
having  resided  these  years  in  Scotland.  First,  a  chnrcli 
with  gradations  of  rank  provides  prizes  which  draw  in 
men  of  social  standing ;  and  so  long  as  this  is  a  world 
of  snobs,  even  a  church  will  be  thought  the  more  of  for 
numbering  in  its  ranks  tlie  sons  of  peers.  And  sec- 
ondly, Episcopacy  provides  clergymen  who  rank  on 
terms  of  equality  with  the  highest  classes  in  the  coun- 
try. I  regard  this  last  as  a  most  important  matter.  If 
a  lord  asks  a  jjarish  clergyman,  however  eminent  he 
may  be,  —  say  tliat  it  were  Chalmers  himself,  —  to  his 
house,  why,  the  latent  feeling  on  both  sides  is,  that  the 
peer  is  rather  patronizing  the  parson ;  while  if  a  duke 
entertains  an  archbishop,  the  nobleman  receives  an  honor 
rather  than  confers  one.  And  as  the  clergy  will  always 
be,  to  the  vulgar  mind,  the  embodiment  or  at  least  the 
representatives  of  the  Church,  that  which  improves  or 
depresses  tlieir  social  standing  affects  the  credit  in  which 
the  Church  will  be  commonly  held,  in  a  proportionate 
degree. 

Now,  as  I  have  said,  very  many  Scotch  parsons  are 
of  the  humblest  possible  extraction ;  and  most  of  these 
individuals  have  had  no  opportunity  of  getting  a  little 
poliahcd  up.  They  have  not  the  chance  tliat  a  man  has 
who  is  sroinc  into  the  Church  of  England.     K  a  man 


ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIRS.  323 

lives  at  Oxford  for  four  or  five  years,  and  has  liis  wits 
about  liim,  he  cannot  but  picl-:  up  some  refinement  from 
the  class  witli  wliom  he  in  some  degree  associates,  and 
from  tlic  very  air  of  the  phice.     But  if  a  man  goes  to 
Glasgow  or  St.  Andrews  a  clodhopper,  a  clodliopper  he 
remains  to  the  end  of  his  college  course.     While  at  the 
University  he  lives  in  a  garret  on  oatmeal ;   he  never 
mixes  in  decent  society ;  he  never  sets  foot  in  a  draw- 
ing-room ;  he  is  completely  shied  by  the  small  propor- 
tion  of  young  men  of  the   better  ranks  who  are  his 
class-fellows ;  he  comes  out  into  life  a  coarse,  ungainly 
cub,  with  perhaps  a  certain  vulgar  talent  which    gets 
him  a  living  at  last.     Tiien  he  goes  out  and  drinks  tea 
and    whisky-toddy   with    tlie    neighboring    drovers   and 
small  fanners ;  he  deals  in  coar.-e  jests  which  make  one 
long  to  kick  him  ;  he  has  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
points  of  an  ox  or  pig;  and  is  much  gratified  when  a 
•  drunken  grazier  declares  that  "there's  no  a  man  goes 
to  Whistle-binkie  market  that   kens  aboot  a  stot  sae 
weel  as  Mr.  Ilorrid-bcast."     He  gains,  for  a  time,  a  cer- 
tain i)opularity  with  the  lowest  class ;  but  he  drives  off 
the  gentry  of  the  parish  to  the  nearest  Episcopal  chapel. 
I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with  me,  my  friend,  when    I 
say  that  I  regard  it  as  self-evident  that  the  parish  priest 
ought  to  possess  the  bearing,  manners,  and  feelings  of  a 
gentleman.     He  will  be  the  better  fitted  for  doing  his 
duty  well,  even  among  the  [)Oorest.     He   will    be   the 
more  respected ;    and  if  a  clergyman  is  not  respected, 
he  is  useless.     The    poorest   bodies    know    thorougidy 
well  when  the  minister  is  jack-fellow-alike,  a  man  who 
may    be    presumed   upon,    and  when  that   will   not  do. 
Nor  does  this  imply  a  grain  of  affected  stiffness,  or  the 


824  SOME   FURTHER   TALK 

A-crv  Klifrhtest  lack  of  cordial  kindness  and  sympathy 
upon  the  part  of  the  real  gentleman.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  the  vulgar  boor  who  ■will  walk  into  a  decent  labor 
er's  cottage  with  his  hat  on ;  who  will  keep  its  mistress 
standing  while  he  sits ;  who  will  rudely  say  that  tlie 
])repai-ati()ns  for  dinner  which  he  sees  are  far  too  good 
for  a  faniily  in  such  a  position  ;  who  will  abuse  the  poor 
toiling  creature  because  Iier  little  girl  liad  some  cheap 
ribbons  in  her  boiniet  last  Sunday  at  church ;  and  say, 
^^ith  a  coarseness  beyond  the  pigsty,  that  working  peo- 
ple, who  may  soon  need  aid  from  the  parish,  have  no 
business  with  ornament,  but  should  be  thankful  when 
they  can  find  food  to  eat.*  I  know,  indeed,  that  among 
the  heritors,  —  and  every  heritor  with  a  fair  rental  is  by 
coui'tesy  a  county  gentleman,  —  some  miserable  crea- 
tures may  be  found  who  don't  want  to  see  the  clergy- 
man a  gentleman  ;  who  feci  that  in  that  case,  superior 
to  themselves  in  education,  aliility,  information,  and 
})robably  in  birth,  he  becomes  the  subject  of  a  compari- 
son in  which  they  come  off  second-best.  I  have  heard 
a  retired  tradesman,  who  liad  bought  a  property  in  the 
county,  and  been  admitted  to  its  society  because  his 
misplaced  aspirates  made  him  an  amusing  laughing- 
stock, lay  down  the  principle  that  a  clergyman  would 
not  work  if  he  were  made  too  well  off.  I  have  heard 
vulgar-minded,  purse-])roud  iipstarts,  taken  from  the 
counter,  and  the  oil-and-color  way,  say,  with  rcfei-once 
to  a  neigiiboring  parson,  that  the  Apostle  Paul  did  not 
keep  livery -servants  or  diive  thorongh-bred  horses.  I 
should  never  argue  witli  any  one  who  talked  in  tliis 
fashion.  Leave  such  vulgarity  to  itself,  and  cut  the 
*  All  these  particulars  are  taken  from  life. 


ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIRS.  325 

creature  dead.  But  the  unliappy  thing  is,  that  'che 
social  standing  of  the  entire  clerical  order  is  injured  by 
the  underbred  vulgarians  who  are  found  in  the  Cliui'ch 
here  and  there  ;  men  Avho  cringe  to  the  Pawtron,  truckle 
to  the  laird,  and  sneak  at  the  Heritors'  meeting.  I  re- 
member being  struck  by  a  passage  in  a  speech  made  by 
the  late  Dr.  Chalmers  in  this  Assembly,  in  which  he 
illustrates  admirably  the  effect  of  the  worldly  standing 
of  the  clergy  upon  the  moral  estimation  in  which  they 
will  generally  be  held.     He  says  :  — 

"  It  is  quite  ridiculous  to  say  tli.it  t!ie  worth  of  the  clergy 
will  sudice  to  keep  them  up  in  die  estimation  of  society 
This  worth  must  be  combined  with  importance.  Give  both 
■worth  and  importance  to  the  same  individual,  and  what  are 
the  terms  employed  in  describing  him '?  '  A  distinguished 
member  of  society,  the  ornament  of  a  most  respectable  pro- 
fession, the  virtuous  companion  of  the  great,  and  a  generous 
consolation  to  all  the  sickness  and  poverty  around  liim.' 
These,  Moderator,  appear  to  me  to  be  the  terms  peculiarly 
descriptive  of  the  appropiiate  character  of  a  clergyman,  and 
they  serve  to  mark  the  place  which  he  ought  to  occupy  ;  but 
take  away  the  importance,  and  leave  only  the  worth,  and 
what  do  you  make  of  him  ?  what  is  the  descriptive  term 
applied  to  him  now  ?  Precisely  the  term  which  I  often  find 
applied  to  many  of  my  brethren,  and  which  galls  me  to  the 
very  bone  every  moment  I  hear  it,  '  a  fne  body ' ;  a  being 
whom  you  may  like,  but  whom  I  defy  you  to  esteem ;  a  mere 
object  of  endearment ;  a  being  whom  the  great  may  at  times 
honor  with  the  condescension  of  a  dinner,  but  whom  they 
will  never  admit  as  a  respectable  addition  to  their  society. 
Now  all  that  I  demand  of  the  Court  of  Tiends  is,  to  be  raised, 
and  that  as  speedily  as  possible,  above  the  imputation  of  being 
'  a  fine  body' ;  that  they  would  add  importance  to  my  worth, 
and  give  splendor  and  clficacy  to  those  exertions  which  have 
for  their  object  the  most  exalted  interests  of  the  species." 


326  ABOUT   SCOTCH   AFFAIRS. 

Capital  soiukI  sense,  and  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
world  there  ! 

Such,  my  dear  Editor,  are  certain  meditations,  rea- 
sonings, facts,  statements,  and  opinions,  which  have 
beguiled  me  from  weariness  (though  tliey  may  have 
had  quite  a  contrary  effect  on  you)  dui-ing  the  less  in- 
teresting business  of  several  Assembly  days.  It  was 
good  in  me  to  think  of  you  (and  perhaps  of  the  intellect- 
ual circle  for  which  you  monthly  cater),  and  to  com- 
bine my  attendance  upon  my  duties  here  with  doing 
something  that  may  amuse  or  inform  an  absent  but  not 
forgotten  friend.  But  now  the  Assembly  is  drawing  to 
its  close  :  it  is  past  eleven  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  tlie 
1st  of  June,  and  I  must  put  my  note-book  in  my  pocket, 
and  attend  to  the  closing  proci-eding^.  Then  to-morrow 
morning  I  shall  be  off  homewards  ;  and  O,  how  pleas- 
ant the  rush  from  glaring  pavements,  a  stifling  atmos- 
pliere,  and  tedious  speeches,  to  the  bright  green  fields 
and  the  thick  leaves  which  I  know  await  me.  My  home 
has  seemed  shadowy  and  far  away  during  these  days  of 
occupation  here ;  but  now  it  is  growuig  into  reality 
again,  as  I  think  how  a  few  hours  are  to  take  me  back 
to  it.  I  wonder  how  the  horses  are  ?  I  iiope  the  dogs 
are  all  well.  As  for  the  children,  I  hear  of  their  wel- 
fare daily  ;  and  I  am  taking  with  me  a  sufficient  num- 
ber of  squeaking  dogs,  musical  wagons,  trumpets,  and 
drums,  to  distract  the  nerves  of  a  literary  man  for 
weeks  to  come.  When  shall  we  see  you  again  ?  It 
cannot  be  too  soon  now. 

Always  your  sincere  friend, 

C.  A.  MACDONALD. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 


HERE  are  great  people  who  have  seen  so 
nuicli,  that  they  are  not  surprised  by  any- 
thing. Tliere  are  silly  people  who  have  not 
seen  very  much,  but  who  think  it  a  fine 
thin;;  to  pretend  that  they  are  not  surprised  by  anytliing. 
As  for  tlie  ])rc.sent  writer,  he  lias  seen  so  little  that  he 
feels  it  very  strange  to  find  himself  here  ;  and  he  has 
not  the  least  desire  to  pretend  that  he  does  not  feel  it  so. 
This  morning  the  writer  awoke  in  a  bare  little  cham- 
ber, curtainless  and  carpetless,  in  that  great  hotel  at 
Lucerne  in  Switzerland,  which  is  called  the  Schweizer 
Hof.  And  having  had  breakfast  in  a  very  large  and 
showy  dining-room,  along  with  two  travelling  com- 
panions, he  is  now  standing  at  a  window  of  that  apart- 
ment, and  looking  out.  Just  in  front,  there  spreads  the 
green  lake  of  Lucerne.  Away  to  tlie  left,  is  tlie  Rigi ; 
and  to  tlie  riglit,  beyond  the  lake,  the  lofty  Pilatus,  in 
a  tarn  on  whose  summit  tradition  says  the  banished 
governor  of  Judea  drowned  himself,  stricken  by  con- 
science for  his  unjust  condemnation  of  Christ.  The 
town  stands  at  this  end  of  the  lake  ;  divided  into   two 


328  FKOM  SATURDAY   TO   MONDAY. 

parts  by  the  river  Reuss,  which  here  flows  out  of  the 
lake  in  a  swift  green  stream,  running  with  almost  the 
speed  of  a  torrent.  There  is  a  glare  of  light  and  heat 
everjwh(!re  in  the  town,  most  of  all  on  the  broad  level 
piece  of  ground  which  at  this  point  spreads  between  tlie 
lake  and  several  hotels.  On  a  rising  ground,  a  few 
hundred  yards  off,  rising  ?tee[)ly  from  the  hike,  stands 
the  Roman  Catholic  catliedral,  a  somewhat  shabby 
building,  with  two  lofty  slender  spires  at  its  west  end. 
Tliere  are  cloisters  round  it ;  and  from  several  openings 
in  the  wall,  on  the  side  towards  the  lake,  you  have 
delightful  peeps  of  the  green  water  below,  and  of  snow- 
capped hills  beyond.  If  you  enter  that  cathedral  at 
almost  any  time,  you  will  find  its  plain  interior  tilled 
by  a  large  congregation ;  and  you  will  hear  part  of  the 
service  boisterously  roared  out  by  priests  of  unprepos- 
sessing aspect.  Why  do  the  Roman  priests  so  furiously 
bellow  ? 

This  is  a  Saturday  morning  in  August,  —  a  beautiful 
bright  morning. 

Tliere  is  no  part  of  the  week  that  is  so  well  remem- 
bered by  many  j-enple  as  the  period  fx'om  Saturday  to 
Monday,  including  botli  the  former  and  the  latter 
days.  That  season  of  time  has  a  character  of  its  own ; 
and  many  pleasant  visits  and  expeditions  have  been 
comjjrised  within  it.  Every  one  can  sympathize  with 
the  poet  Prior,  and  can  understand  the  picture  he  calls 
up,  when  he  describes  himself  as  "in  a  liltle  Dutch 
chaise  on  a  Saturday  night ;  on  his  left  hand  his  Horace, 
and  a  friend  on  Ids  right,"  going  out  to  the  country  to 
stay  till  jMonday  with  the  friend  so  situated.  I  fear, 
indeed,  that  Prior  would  not  go  to  church  on  the  Sun- 


FROM   SATURDAY   TO   MONDAY.  329 

day,  which  I  can  only  regret.  But  I  am  going  to 
spend  this  time  in  a  way  as  different  as  may  be  from 
that  in  whicli  I  am  accustomed  to  spend  it,  or  in  which 
I  ever  spent  it  before. 

When  the  writer  arises  on  common  Saturdays,  the 
thing  he  has  in  prospect  is  several  quiet  hours  spent  in 
going  over  the  sermons  he  has  to  preach  on  the  follow- 
ing (lay.  I  suppose  that  most  clergymen  who  do  their 
work  as  well  as  they  can,  do  on  Saturday  morning  after 
breakfast  walk  into  their  study,  and  sit  down  in  that 
still  retreat  to  work.  And  if,  on  other  days,  you  are 
thinking  all  the  while  you  are  at  work  there  of  ten 
sick  people  you  have  to  see,  and  of  a  host  of  other 
matters  that  must  be  attended  to  out  of  doors,  you  will 
much  enjoy  the  affluent  sense  of  abundant  time  for 
tiiinking,  which  you  will  have  if  you  make  it  a  rule 
that  on  Saturdays  you  shall  do  no  pastoral  nor  other 
parochial  work.  Then  you  ought  to  take  a  long  walk 
in  the  afternoon,  and  give  the  evening  to  entire  rest, 
refreshing  your  mind  by  some  light,  cliecrful  reading. 

This  advice,  however,  need  not  be  prolonged  ;  as  it 
is  addressed  to  a  limited  order  of  men,  and  to  men  who 
are  not  likely  to  take  it.  And  to-day,  instead  of  sitting 
down  to  work,  there  is  something  quite  diifci'ent  to  be 
done. 

For  it  is  time  to  cease  looking  out  of  the  window  at 
the  Schweizer  Ilof,  and  to  walk  the  short  distance  to  tiie 
spot  where  a  little  steamer  is  jM-eparing  to  start.  The 
baggage  of  tlie  three  travellt;rs  is  contained  in  three 
black  leather  bags  of  modest  size.  The  steamer  de- 
parts, and  leaves  the  town  beliind  ;  but  to-day,  instead 
of  sailing  the  length  of  the  lake,  to  where  it  ends  amid 


330  FROM   SATURDAY    TO   MONDAY. 

the  wilds  of  Ui'i,  we  turn  to  the  right  hand  into  a  re- 
tired bay,  wliich  gradually  shallows,  till  the  dcp'.h  of 
water  becomes  very  small.  Pilatus  is  on  the  right, 
and  the  place  where  in  former  days  there  used  to  be  the 
Slide  of  AJpnach.  The  sides  of  Pilatus  are  covered 
with  great  forests,  the  timber  of  which  would  be  of 
great  use  if  it  could  be  readily  got  hold  of.  And  the 
Slide  was  made  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  down  great 
trees  from  spots  from  which  any  ordinary  conveyance 
would  be  impossible.  So  a  trough  of  wood  was  formed, 
eight  miles  in  length,  beginning  high  up  the  mountain, 
and  ending  at  the  lake.  It  was  six  feet  wide,  and  four 
lieet  deep :  a  stream  of  water  was  made  to  flow  through 
it,  to  lessen  friction.  It  wound  about  to  suit  the  ground, 
and  was  carried,  bridge-like,  over  three  deep  ravines. 
The  trees  intended  to  be  sent  down  by  it  were  stripped 
of  bark  and  branches,  and  then  launched  away.  The 
biggest  tree  did  the  eight  miles  in  six  minutes,  tearing 
down  with  a  noise  like  thunder,  an  avalanche  of  wood. 
Sometimes  a  tree  lea])t  out  of  the.  slide,  in  mid  career, 
and  was  instantly  smashed  to  atoms. 

The  steamer  stops  at  a  rude  little  wharf,  near  which 
a  great  lumbering  diligence  is  waiting,  very  clumsy,  but 
comfortable.  Six  horses  draw  it,  whose  harness,  made 
mainly  of  rojic,  is  covered  with  bells,  that  keep  up  a 
ceaseless  tinkle  as  we  go.  In  Britain,  we  wish  a  car- 
riage to  run  as  quietly  as  possible  ;  in  Switzerland,  they 
like  a  good  deal  of  noise.  We  go  slowly  on,  into  the 
Canton  of  Unterwalden,  by  the  little  town  of  Sarnen, 
along  a  valley  richly  wooded.  For  a  while,  the  road  is 
level,  then  we  begin  to  climb.  And  now,  as  is  usual 
with  British  travellers,  we  get  out  and  walk  on,  leaving 


FROM   SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.  331 

the  diligence  to  follow.  We  are  entering  the  Brunig 
Pass.  Jn  former  daj^s,  it  could  be  traversed  only  ou 
toot  or  on  mules ;  now  a  carriage  road  has  been  made, 
a  marvel  of  skilful  engineering.  We  walk  up  a  long 
steep  ascent.  On  the  left  hand,  far  below,  are  little  green 
lakes,  and  scattered  chalets ;  on  the  right,  rude  hills. 
Ever  J  here  and  there  a  little  stream  from  ^the  hills 
crosses  the  road.  It  is  novi'  a  mere  trickling  thread  of 
water ;  but  acres  on  either  side  of  it,  covei-ed  with  huge 
stones,  testify  wliat  a  raging  torrent  it  must  be  in  winter. 
So  we  go  ou,  till  we  reach  a  spot  where  we  ai-e  to  wit- 
ness a  piece  of  ingenuity  combined  with  bad  taste.  Turn 
out  of  the  highway  by  a  little  path  to  the  right,  and  you 
come  in  two  hundred  yards  to  a  sawmill,  driven  by  an 
im])etuous  little  stream.  Where  does  the  stream  come 
from  ?  It  seems  to  issue  out  of  the  rocky  wall,  which  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  above  the  sawmill  here  crosses  the  lit- 
tle upland  valley.  You  follow  the  stream  towards  its 
source.  You  reach  the  i-ocky  wall.  And  tlicre.  sure 
enough,  violently  rushing  out  through  a  low-browed  dark 
tunnel,  which  it  quite  tills,  you  see  the  origin  of  the 
stream.     What  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  rocky  wall  ? 

Why,  there  is  a  considerable  lake,  which  was  once  a 
great  deal  bigger.  The  Lake  of  Lmigern  Avas  once  a 
beautiful  sheet  of  water,  with  fine  wood  coming  down  to 
its  margin.  But  the  people  of  the  valley  thought  that, 
by  partially  draining  the  lake,  they  might  get  some  hun- 
dreds of  acres  of  valuable  land,  and  all  consideration  of 
the  picturesque  had  to  give  way.  Tlie  tunnel  we  have 
seen  lowered  the  water  in  t!ie  lake  by  a  hundred  and 
twenty  feet,  and  diminished  its  size  to  halt".  Willi  great 
labor,  the  work  of  niueteeu  thousand  days  given  by  the 


382       FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

pensants,  the  tunnel  was  made,  beginning  at  its  lower 
end.  through  the  rooky  ridge,  to  within  six  feet  of  the 
water  at  the  end  of  the  lake.  These  six  feet  of  friable 
rock  were  blown  up  with  gunpowder,  fired  by  three  dar- 
ing men  wdio  instantly  fled  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  black 
stream  of  mud  and  water  appeared  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  tunnel.  The  traveller,  returning  by  tlie  «;awmill  to 
the  road,  goes  on  till  he  leaches  the  village,  whence  you 
may  see  a  bare,  ugly  tract  of  five  lumdred  acres,  dotted 
with  wooden  chrdets,  gained  by  spoiling  the  lake. 

Passing  through  the  village,  you  climb  on  and  on; 
the  diligence  makes  no  sign  of  overtaking  you.  You 
reach  the  summit  at  last,  3, GOO  feet  above  the  sea ; 
whence  you  have  a  grand  view  of  tlie  vale  of  Ilasli. 
Those  ti'emendous  snowy  peaks  beyond  are  tlie  peaks 
of  the  Wetterhorn,  one  of  the  grandest  of  the  Alps. 
All  this  way  the  road  has  been  very  lonely,  but  always 
richly  wooded.  Now  you  begin  to  go  down.  The  road 
winds  along  the  side  of  the  mountain,  cut  out  of  the 
rock.  In  some  places  it  is  a  mere  notch,  witli  great 
masses  of  rock  hanging  over  far  Ix^yond  its  outer  edge. 
And  so,  broken  by  a  pause  for  some  bread  and  wine  at 
a  little  wayside  inn,  the  day  goes  on  towards  evening. 

All  this  wliilc,  one  is  trying  to  feel  that  it  is  Satur- 
day, the  familiar  day  one  knows  at  home ;  for  some- 
how it  seems  quite  different.  And  in  this  strange  coun- 
try, where  you  are  a  foreigner,  you  feel  yourself  quite 
a  different  person  from  what  j'ou  used  to  be  at  home. 
No  doubt,  by  having  two  travelling  companions  from 
Britain,  you  keep  a  little  of  tiie  British  atmosphere 
about  you.  If  you  were  walking  down  now  into  Ilasli 
all  alone,  you  would  be  much  more  keenly  aware  of 


FROM    SATURDAY   TO   MONDAY.  333 

the  genins  of  the  phice.  All  your  life  and  your  interests 
at  home  would  grow  quite  shadowy  and  unreal.  But 
this  is  one  thing  t!iat  makes  a  holiday  season  in  a  for- 
eig;i  country  deliver  you  so  tlioroughh'  from  jour  home 
l»urden  of  care  and  labor.  IIow  very  lightly  the  charge 
of  one's  parish  rests  upon  one  when  the  parish  is  a 
thousand  miles  away!  The  thing  which  at  home  is 
always  pressing  on  you  so  heavily,  grows  light,  at  that 
distance,  as  one  of  those  colored  air-balls  of  India- 
rubber. 

And  now,  as  the  light  is  fading  somewhat,  the  great 
diligence,  running  swiftly  down  the  hill,  and  zigzagging 
round  perili)us  corners,  with  little  exertion  of  the  six 
plump  horses,  but  with  a  tremendous  jingling  of  th.eir 
bells,  overtak(!s  us,  and  for  a  mile  or  two  you  may  en- 
joy a  pleasant  rest  after  the  long  walk.  We  stop  at 
a  place  Avhere  a  roofed  wood(;n  bridge  crosses  the  river, 
turning  sharp  off  to  the  left.  Here  we  leave  the  big 
diligence,  and  climb  to  the  top  of  a  lesser  one  which  is 
waiting,  a  vast  height.  And  now,  in  the  growing  dark- 
ness, we  proceed  slowly  up  the  valley,  following  the 
course  of  the  river  Aar.  On  the  riglit  hand,  huge  preci- 
])ices  close  in  the  valley,  from  whirh  every  now  and 
tlien  a  streak  of  white  ibain,  hundieds  oC  feet  in  height, 
shows  you  a  waterfall.  It  is  perfectly  silent,  though 
these  seem  so  near;  they  are  much  farther  off  than  you 
are  aware.  On  and  on,  up  the  river,  till  you  can  see 
lights  ahead,  and  ynu  jolt  along  a  very  roughly-paved 
.street,  wiiere  in  the  darkness  you  see  |)icturesque  wooden 
houses  on  either  hand.  Tliis  i>  Meyringen,  one  of  the 
most  thorough  and  beautiful  Swiss  vill.ages  to  be  found 
in  Switzerland.     "What  an  odd    Saturdav  eveninj;  this 


334  FROM   SATURDAY   TO   MONDAY. 

seems!  Our  old  ways  of  thinking  and  feeling  are  quite 
dislocated.  We  stop  at  the  door  of  a  large  hotel,  built 
of  wood.  Everything  in  it  seems  of  wood,  except  the 
stone  staii'case.  It  is  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  —  quite 
dark ;  they  have  not  our  long  beautiful  twilights  there. 
And  now  we  have  dinner.  Then  we  ins])ect  a  room 
filled  with  carved  work  in  wood  which  is  for  sale,  and 
select  some  little  things  which  will  pleasantly  remind  us 
of  this  place  and  time  when  both  are  far  away.  Unaliy, 
before  ten  o'clock,  we  climb  the  long  stair,  eac-h  to  his 
little  bare  chamber,  with  many  thoughts  of  those  at 
home,  and  trying  unsuccessfully  to  feel  that  this  is 
Saturday  night. 

But  the  glory  and  beauty  of  Meyringen  appeared  tlie 
next  morning,  —  one  of  the  sunniest,  calmest,  and  bright- 
est Sundays  that  ever  shone  since  the  creation.  You  go 
forth  from  the  hotel,  and  walk  down  the  street,  with  the 
most  picturesque  wooden  houses  on  either  hand,  witii 
their  projecting  galleries  and  great  overhanging  eaves. 
Above,  there  is  the  brightest  blue  sky,  and  all  round, 
snowy  peaks,  dazzling  white,  rising  into  the  deep  blue. 
Walk  on  till  you  are  clear  of  the  village,  and  fieMs  of 
coarse  grass  spread  round  you  ;  for  you  will  not  liiid 
there  the  soft  green  turf  of  Britain,  but  a  rougli,  harsh 
grass,  alive  with  crickets  and  grasshoppers.  AVe  have 
some  compensation  f  )r  our  uncertain  climate  and  al^un- 
dant  rain.  Yet,  amid  that  scenery  so  sublime,  still,  and 
bright,  you  do  not  miss  anything  that  could  be  desired. 
And  now,  on  tlie  !-ilent  Sunday  morning,  I  have  no 
doubt  that,  of  several  men  whom  I  saw,  who  though 
arrayed  in  mountain  dress  each  wore  a  white  neckcloth, 
each  one  was  thinking  of  his  own  church  many  hundreds 


FROM   SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.  335 

of  miles  off,  and  hoping  and  asking  that  all  might  go 
well  there  that  day. 

All  round  Meyringen  there  stand  those  snowy  Alps. 
Let  the  small  critic  understand  that  we  all  know  that 
an  alp  does  not  strictly  mean  a  mountain,  but  a  pasture 
high  in    the   mountains.      But  in    Britain,  Alps  mean 
mountains,  and  nothing  else.     And  all  round  are  those 
white  peaks,  save  in  the  narrow  opening  where  the  Aar 
comes  down  from  above,  and  where  it  rolls  away  below. 
From  great  precipices  on  the  left  hand  as  you  look  up 
the  valley,  streams    descend   in   foamy  falls;  and  one 
among  these  has  sometimes  brought  down  in  its  flood 
such  masses  of  mud  and  gravel  as  served  to  overspread 
half  the  valley.     Turn  up  this  little  street,  at  whose  end 
you    can    see  the   church,  which  is   a   Protestant  one. 
Eighteen  feet  from  the  pavement  there  is  a  line  drawn 
on  the   inside  walls,  showhig  the   height  to  whicli  the 
church  was  once  filled  with  mud  by  an  overflow  of  that 
torrent.     Service  is  going  on.     We  quietly  enter  and 
steal  to  a  seat  by  the  door.     A  clergyman,  in  very  ugly 
robes,  is  standing  in  the  pulpit,  which  looks  diagonally 
across  the  plain  interior.     He  is  reading  his  sermon  in  a 
rather  sleepy  way.     His  robe  is  of  blue,  and  a  great 
white  collar,  turned  over,  is  lound  his  neck.     Here  is 
the  best  place  to  see  a  whole  congregation,  men  and 
women,  in  their  national   dress.     Tlie   men   sit  on  one 
side  of  the  church  and  the  women  on  the  other.     Swiss 
women   are  for  the  most  part  far  from  pretty.     They 
wear  here  a  black  bodice,  with  wh.ite  sleeves  starched 
till  they  seem  as  stiff  as  boards,  a  yellow  petticoat,  and 
a  little  black  hat.     The  church  was  well  fdled.  and  the 
people  seemed  to  listen  very  attentively  to  their  pastor's 
words. 


336  FROM   SATURDAY   TO   MONDAY. 

But,  for  one  thing,  I  do  not  understand  them,  for  they 
are  expressed  in  German;  and  for  anotlier  thing,  I  am 
going  to  worship  elsewliere,  so  I  slip  quietl}'  away.  Just 
at  tlie  gate  through  which  you  pass  into  the  churcliyard, 
there  is  a  shabby  little  buiMing  whicli  I  took  for  a  school. 
No,  it  is  the  Little  Chiircli ;  and  here,  during  the  sum- 
mer and  autumn,  you  may  join  in  the  service  of  the 
Church  of  England.  A  succession  of  clei'gymen  come 
for  a  few  weeks  each.  A  little  before  the  hour  of  wor- 
ship we  enter  the  building.  It  is  just  like  a  very  shabljy 
Scotch  parish  school.  Forms  without  backs  occu])y  tlie 
floor ;  at  one  corner  there  is  an  odd  little  cnclosuie 
which  serves  as  a  reading-desk  and  apul[)it;  and  a  liitle 
way  off  tluire  is  placed  a  very  small  table,  which  is  to- 
day covered  with  white,  and  bears  the  elements  of  the 
Communion.  As  the  congregation  assembles,  five-and- 
twenty  persons,  the  clergyman  puts  on  his  surplice,  and 
entering  tlie  little  desk  begins  the  service.  I  cannot  but 
admire  the  determination  this  young  minister  shows, 
even  in  that  shabby  place,  to  make  the  worship  of  God 
as  decorous  as  may  be.  Although  tlieie  was  no  organ, 
there  was  quite  a  musical  service  ;  even  the  Psalms  being 
chanted  remarkably  well.  Five  or  six  young  English- 
women acted  as  a  choir.  The  les-ons  were  read  by  an 
old  gentleman  standing  by  the  little  comminiion  table; 
but  a  second  surplice  was  not  forthcoming,  and  he  was 
devoid  of  any  j-obe.  The  sermon  was  a  very  decent 
one;  not  clofpient  nor  striking,  but  plain  and  earnest. 
I  sliould  liave  liked  it  better  if  the  clergyman  had 
prayed,  before  beginning  it,  in  tlie  words  of  one  of  the 
usual  collects.  But  he  simpl}'  prefaced  his  discourse  by 
the  words,  "  Li  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son 


FROM   SATURDAY   TO  MONDAY.  337 

and  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; "  and  by  that  exceedingly  silly 
shibboleth,  conveyed  to  me  his  adherence  to  a  decaying 
party,  whicli  assiu'edly  does  not  consist  of  the  wisest  or 
ablest  of  tlie  Anglican  clergy.  There  are,  of  course, 
two  or  three  grand  exceptions ;  but  there  is  something 
fatuous  in  the  parade  of  going  as  near  Rome  as  may  be, 
which  some  empty-headed  youths  exhibit.  Let  me  add, 
tliat  in  the  evening  I  went  to  service  again.  And  now 
the  sermon  was  so  terril^ly  bad,  so  weak  and  silly,  that  I 
found  it  hard  to  understand  how  any  man  who  had 
brains  to  write  the  former  discourse  could  possibly  have 
produced  it.  Yet  the  text  was  one  of  the  noblest  in 
Holy  Scripture. 

After  the  forenoon  service,  we  walk  along  a  great 
wall,  built  to  delend  the  valley  from  floods,  towards  the 
heights  on  the  left  hand,  looking  up  the  valley ;  and  in 
the  hot  afternoon  toil  slowly  up  and  np,  till  Meyringen  is 
left  far  below.  What  is  tliat  distant  sound  ?  WiiU,  it 
is  that  of  rifle-shooting ;  for  the  men  of  Ilasli  think 
Sunday  afternoon  the  best  time  for  practice.  Let  me 
confess  that  the  perpetnal  reports  broke  in  very  sadly 
on  the  silence  ol'  the  Holy  Day.  Yet  there  never  was 
a  nobler  temjile  than  that  on  which  you  looked,  sitting 
down  on  a  rock  and  gazing  at  the  valley  far  below,  and 
the  snowy  Alps  beyond.  You  could  not  but  think  of  the 
words,  chanted  in  that  morning  service,  "  The  strength 
of  the  hills  is  His  also " !  And  sitting  here,  can  one 
forget  that  at  tliis  hour  the  text  is  being  read  out  in  the 
church  far  away  ;  can  one  help  shutting  out  the  Alps  for 
a  little,  and  asking  that  the  Blessed  Spirit  may  carry 
the  words  that  are  to  be  spoken  to  many  hearts,  for 
warning,  counsel  and  comfort  ?     It  is  quite  true,  that 

15  V 


338  FROM    SATURDAY    TO    MONDAY. 

when  at  a  distance  of  hundreds  of  miles,  your  home 
interests  grow  mi.sty  and  unsubstantial;  but  it  is  likewise 
true  that  at  such  an  hour  as  this  they  press  themselves 
on  one  witli  a  wondei'ful  clearness  and  i'orce.  My  friend 
Smith  told  me  that  in  two  hours'  lonely  walking  uuder 
Mont  Blanc,  on  a  bright,  clear  autumn  day,  he  felt  more 
worried  by  some  little  perplexity  which  soon  cleared 
itself  up,  than  at  any  other  time  in  his  life.  And  sitting 
down  on  the  edge  of  a  glacier,  whence  a  stream  broke 
away  in  thunder,  with  the  Monarch  of  Mountains  look- 
ing down,  all  he  could  think  of  was  that  wretched  little 
vexation. 

The  Sunday  dinner  hour  at  the  Sauvage  at  Meyringen 
is  four ;  so  let  us  slowly  descend  from  this  height.  A 
large  party  dines,  chiefly  English.  The  main  character- 
istic of  dimier  was  the  fish  called  lolte,  which  is  caught 
in  the  river  near.  There  was  a  certain  quietness  be- 
coming the  day;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  remark  that  the 
greater  number  of  our  countrymen  seemed  to  make 
Sunday  a  day  of  rest.  And  indeed  it  is  inexpressibly 
pleasant,  after  the  fatigue  and  hurry  which  attend 
travelling  rapidly  on  through  grand  scenery,  to  have  an 
occasional  day  on  which  to  repose.  And  going  to 
church,  with  a  little  congregation  of  one's  countrymen 
and  countrywomen,  to  join  in  the  familiar  service  in  a 
trange  land,  one  felt  something  of  that  glow  which 
came  into  St.  Paul's  Iienrt,  when  after  his  voyage  he 
was  clieered  i)y  the  sii^lit  of  Cliii>tian  fi'iends,  and 
which  made  him  "•  tliank  God  and  take  coura<re." 

'i'hen  to  the  evening  service,  when  the  congregation 
was  less,  and  the  sermon  so  extremely  bad.  The  setting 
sun  was  casting  a  rosy  color  upon  the  snowy  peaks,  as 


FROM   SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.  339 

we  returned  to  the  only  home  one  had  there.  And  in- 
deed Sunday  is  the  worst  day  at  an  inn.  Tliere  is  a 
strongly  felt  inconsistency  between  the  associations  of 
the  day,  especially  if  you  live  in  Scotland,  and  the  whole 
look  of  the  place.  And  sitting  in  a  verandah  behind 
the  Sauvage,  with  the  fragrance  of  the  trees  in  the  twi- 
light coming  up  from  the  garden  below,  and  looking 
across  to  the  Falls  of  the  Reichenbach  on  the  otlier  side 
of  the  valley,  it  was  worrying  to  think  of  the  weak 
sermon  we  had  just  heard,  where  one  had  hoped  for 
that  which  might  cheer  and  comfort  and  direct.  On 
another  day,  in  a  church  in  a  grander  scene  than  even 
this,  I  sat  beside  a  certain  great  preacher  while  a  poor 
sermon  was  being  preached  with  much  attempt  at  ora- 
torical effect,  and  thought  how  different  it  would  have 
been  had  that  man  occupied  the  pulpit.  Perhaps  he 
thought  so  too,  though  he  did  not  say  so.  But  indeed, 
arrayed  in  garments  of  gray,  and  with  a  wideawake  hat 
lying  beside  him,  tluiL  eminent  clergyman  was  like  a 
locomotive  engine  when  the  steam  is  not  up.  He  could 
not  have  preached  then  ;  at  least,  not  without  two  hours 
of  previous  thought.  Before  the  best  railway  engine 
can  dash  away  with  its  burden,  you  must  fill  its  boiler 
with  water,  and  kindle  its  lire.  And  when  you  may  see 
that  clergyman  ascend  his  pulpit  in  decorous  canonicals 
on  a  Sunday,  charged  witli  his  subject,  with  every  nerve 
tense,  and  with  the  most  earnest  j)urpose  on  his  rather 
frightened  face,  to  deliver  his  message  to  many  hundreds 
of  immortal  beings ;  if  you  had  previously  seen  the 
easy  ligure  in  the  light-gray  suit  sitting  in  a  pew  at 
Chamouni,  you  would  discern  a  like  difference  to  that 
between  the  engine  standing  cold  and  powerless  in  the 


310  FROM   SATURDAY   TO   MONDAY. 

slied,  and  the  engine  coining  slowly  up  to  the  platform, 
witli  the  compressed  strength  of  a  thon.-^and  horses 
fretting  for  escape  or  employment,  to  take  away  the 
expi'ess  train. 

To-morrow  morning  we  have  to  be  up  at  half-past 
four ;  so  let  us  go  to  bed.  First,  let  us  have  a  look  at 
the  quiet  street,  indistinct  in  tiie  twilight,  and  at  the 
outline  of  encircling  hills. 

There  are  places  in  Switzerland  where  you  do  not 
sleep  so  well  as  might  be  desired.  A  host  of  wretched 
little  enemies  scarify  your  skin,  and  drive  sleep  from  your 
eyes.  The  Sauvage  at  Meyringen  is  not  one  of  these 
places.  It  is  a  thoroughly  clean  and  respectable  house. 
Yet  for  the  guidance  of  tourists  who  may  know  even 
less  than  tlie  writer  (which  is  barely  conceivable),  let 
it  be  said  that  there  is  an  etfectual  means  of  keeping 
such  hostile  troops  away.  Procure  a  quantity  of  cam- 
phor. Wear  some  of  it  in  a  bag  about  you,  —  a  very 
little  bag,  —  and  even  though  you  sit  next  a  disgust- 
ing, infragrant,  unwashed  person  in  a  diligence,  nothing 
will  assail  you.  And  at  night  rub  a  little  of  that  mate- 
rial into  powder  between  your  palms,  and  sprinkle  it 
over  your  bed,  having  turned  back  the  bed.lothes. 
Do  that,  and  you  are  safe.  If  you  rub  yourself  over 
with  cara[)hor  besides,  you  are  secure  as  though  wrapped 
in  triple  brass.  You  have  made  yourself  an  offensive 
object  to  tlie  aesthetic  sensibilities  of  fleas,  and  they  will 
rejeci  you  with  contempt.  They  will  do  this,  even 
thougli,  uncamphored.  you  might  be  (in  the  South  Sea 
Island  sense)  a  remarkably  good  man.  You  remember 
how  an  Englishman  once  spoke  to  a  chief  of  a  tribe  out 
there.    He  spoke  of  a  certain  zealous  missionary.    "  Ah, 


F.ROM   SATURDAY   TO   MONDAY.  341 

he  was  a  very  good  man,  a  very  good  man,"  said  the 
Englishman,  truly  and  heartily.  "  Yes,"  said  the  chief, 
not  so  warml}'  ;  "  him  was  a  good  man,  but  him  was 
very  tough  !  "  The  chief  spoke  with  the  air  of  one  who 
says  critically,  "  The  venison  at  Smith's  was  not  so 
good  as  usual  last  night."  And  the  Englishman  for- 
bore to  enquire  as  to  the  data  on  which  the  chief  pro- 
nounced his  judgment.  No  doubt  he  had  experimental 
knowledge  on  that  subject. 

It  is  a  great  deal  easier  to  get  up  in  the  dark  at  half 
past  four  in  the  morning  in  Switzerland  than  it  is  any- 
where in  Britain.  There  is  something  so  bracing  and 
exhilarating  in  the  mountain  air,  that  you  are  easily 
equal  to  exertion  Avhich  would  knock  you  up  elsewhere. 
Men  who  at  home  could  not  walk  five  or  six  miles 
without  fatigue,  walk  their  thirty  miles  over  a  Pass 
without  difficulty;  come  in  to  dinner  with  a  good  appe- 
tite ;  and  after  dinner,  without  the  least  of  that  feeling 
of  stiffness  which  commonly  follows  any  unusual  exer- 
tion, are  out  of  doors  again,  sauntering  in  the  twilight, 
or  visiting  some  sight  that  is  within  easy  reach.  Yes- 
terday was  a  resting  day  with  us,  so  to-day  we  had 
breakfast  a  little  after  five ;  and  then,  the  three  black 
leather  bags  being  disposed  on  a  black  horse,  that 
scrambled  like  a  cat  over  ground  that  would  have 
ruined  an  English  steed's  knees  in  the  first  quarter 
of  a  mile,  we  set  off  at  six  o'clock  to  cross  the  Pass 
of  the  Great  Scheideck  to  Grindelwald. 

First,  along  the  road  up  the  valley  for  a  mile  or  so ; 
then  turn  to  the  right,  and  begin  to  climb  the  mountain 
which  on  that  side  walls  the  valley  in.  The  ascent  is 
very  steep,  and  the  path  consists  of  smooth  and  slippery 


312  FROM   SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

pieces  of  rock.     You  soon  come  to  understand  the  wis- 
dom of  your  guide,  who  requires  you  to  walk  at  a  very 
slow  pace.      That  is  your  only  chance,  if  you   are   to 
climb   such   ways   for   several    successive   hours.     Tiie 
inexperienced  traveller  pushes  on  at  a  rapid  pace,  and 
speedily  is  quite  exhausted      After  a   little  climbing, 
you  may  turn  to  the  right,  where  you  will  see  the  tor- 
rent of  the  Reichenbaeh  go  down  nearly  two  thousand 
feet  in  a  succession  of  ranids  and  falls,  hurrying  to  the 
Aar  in  the  valley  below.     On,  higlier  and  higher,  till 
you  see  the  huge  snowy  mass  of  tlie  Wettcrhorn  far 
before  you  on  the  left,  and  you  enter  a  little  plain  of 
bright    green    grass,    dotted    with    many    picturesque 
wooden  chalets.     On,  higher  and  higher,  till  you  stop 
to  rest  and  have  something  to  eat  at  the  baths  of  Rosen- 
laui,  a  pretty  inn  near  a  rock  where  the  Reichenbaeh 
comes  roaring  out  of  a  cleft.     In  a  large  room  here,  you 
will  be  tempted  to  buy  specimens  of  wood-carving,  very 
beautifully    done.      Having    rested,    you    determine    to 
make  a  little  deviation  from  your  way.     Twenty  min- 
utes' stiff  pulling    up   the  steep    hillside,   over  a  very 
rough  path  to  the  left,  and  you  cross  a  bridge  that  spans 
a  fissure  in  the  rock  two  hundred  feet  deep,  where  a 
little  stream  foams  along.     Now  you  stand  beside  the 
glacier   of   Rosenlaui,  not  large,   but  beautifully  pure. 
A  cave  has  been  cut  out  for  many  yards  into  the  beau- 
tiful blue  ice,  and  into  it  you  go.     It  is  a  singular  place 
in  which  to  find  yourself,  that  cave,  or  rather  tunnel, 
in  the  solid  ice.     The  air  is  cold,  the  floor  is  somewhat 
wet ;  a  soft  light  comes  through  the  ice  from  without. 
But  there  is  no  time  to  linger  unduly,  and  we  return 
down  the  rough  slope  to  the  spot,  near  the  inn,  where 


I 


FROM   SATURDAY   TO   MONDAY.  343 

the  guide  and  packhorse  are  waiting.  Now,  upwards 
again,  by  a  very  muddy  path  through  a  long  wood  of 
pines.  But  gradually  the  pines  cease,  and  the  ground 
grows  bare,  till  you  enter  on  a  tract  where  the  snow  lies 
some  inches  deep.  Parched  as  are  your  hands  and  your 
tongue,  there  is  a  great  temptation  to  refresh  both  with 
handfuls  of  that  snow,  which  in  a  little  wlule  will  leave 
you  more  parched  than  ever.  But  after  no  long  climb- 
ing on  the  snow,  you  reach  the  summit  of  the  Pass, 
six  thousand  five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea.  Here 
you  will  find  a  little  inn,  the  Steinbock,  where  a  simple 
but  abundant  repast  awaits  the  travellers.  Thirty  or 
forty,  almost  all  English,  sit  down  to  copious  supplies 
of  stewed  chamois,  washed  down  with  prodigious 
draughts  of  thin  clai-et.  Here  you  rest  an  hour.  And 
going  out,  you  look  at  tlic  Wetterhorn,  which  rises  in  a 
perpeudieular  wall  of  limestone  rock  many  thousand 
feet  in  height,  beginning  to  rise  apparently  a  hundred 
yards  off.  But  your  eya  deceives  you  in  this  clear  air 
and  amid  these  tremendous  magnitudes.  The  base  of 
the  precipice  is  more  than  a  mile  away.  And  when 
you  begin  to  descend  towards  Grindelwald,  the  awful 
wall  of  rock  seems  to  hang  over  you,  though  nowhere 
you  approach  within  a  mile  of  it.  It  is  not  safe  to  go 
nearer,  for  every  now  and  then  you  hear  a  tremendous 
roar,  and  looking  towards  the  AYetterhorn  you  see  a 
mass  oi"  what  looks  like  powdery  snow  sliding  swiftly 
down  tlie  rock.  You  are  astonished  that  so  small  a 
thing  should  make  such  a  noise.  But  that  is  an  ava- 
lanclie ;  and  if  you  were  nearer,  you  would  know  tliat 
what  seemed  j)owdery  snow  was  indeed  hundreds  of 
tons  of  ice,  in  huge  blocks  and  masses.     And  if  a  village 


344  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

of  chrdots  had  stood  in  the  way,  tliat  slide  of  powdery 
snow  would  have  swept  it  to  destruction. 

It  is  a  fact  well  known  to  students  of  physical  philos- 
opliy,  that  it  is  incomparably  easier  to  go  down  a  steep 
hill  than  to  ascend  one.  Tliis  is  a  result  of  the  great 
and  beneficial  law  of  gravitation,  according  to  wliich  all 
material  bodies  tend  towards  the  centre  of  the  earth. 
And  the  consequence  of  this  law  is,  that  when  we  set  off 
to  descend  from  this  height,  we  do  it  very  easily  and 
rapidly.  A  horse,  indeed,  looks  a  poor  and  awkward 
figure  scrambling  down  these  paths ;  but  if  you  have 
in  your  hands  that  long,  liglit,  tough  staff'  of  ash  shod 
with  iron  which  is  called  an  Alpen-stock,  you  will 
bound  over  the  masses  of  rock  at  a  great  pace,  doing 
things  which  in  a  less  exhilarating  air  you  would  shriidc 
from.  All  the  way  down  on  the  left,  apparently  close 
by,  there  is  that  awful  wall  of  the  Wetterhorn,  and  you 
may  see  other  peaks,  of  which  the  most  noticeable  or  at 
least  the  most  memorable  is  the  Schreckhorn.  By  and 
by,  by  the  path,  you  may  discern  a  man  standing  be- 
side a  great  square  wooden  box,  like  a  small  tub  fixed 
on  a  stake  of  wood  four  or  five  feet  high.  And  when 
the  travellers  approach,  the  man  will  fit  to  that  box  a 
wooden  pipe  eigiit  feet  long,  and  sticking  his  tongue  into 
the  lesser  end  of  the  pipe,  will  vehemently  blow  into  it. 
That  rude  apparatus  is  the  Al[»ine  horn,  of  which  you 
have  heard  folk  talk  and  sing.  There  is  nothing  spe- 
cially attractive  to  the  ear,  in  the  i'ew  notes  brayed 
forth ;  but  what  grand  echoes,  doubled  and  redoubled, 
arc  awakened  up  in  the  breast  of  that  huge  wall,  and 
die  away  in  the  ui)[)er  air  and  mountain !  Produce 
from  your  purse  a  liberal  tip,  and  ask  the  mountaineer 


FROM  SATURDAY   TO  MONDAY.  345 

to  let  you  try  his  horn.  You  blow  with  all  your  might, 
like  my  friend  3Iac  PufF  sounding  his  own  trumpet,  but 
there  is  dead  silence,  as  when  to  such  as  know  him  well 
Mac  Piiif  does  so  sound  ;  a  I'eeble  hi&sing  ot"  air  from  the 
great  tub  is  all  that  rewards  your  labor.  And  one 
always  respects  a  person  who  can  do  what  one  cannot 
do.  Down  along  the  slope,  till,  turning  a  little  way  to 
the  left,  you  approach  the  Upper  Glacier  of  Grindel- 
wald,  filling  up  the  great  gulf  between  the  Wetterhorn 
and  the  Schreckhorn.  Into  this  glacier  you  enter  by 
an  artificial  tunnel ;  bnt  the  ice  is  dirty,  and  streams  of 
water  pour  from  it  on  your  head.  Thus  you  speedily 
retreat.  Great  belts  of  fir-trees  fringe  the  glacier, 
which,  like  other  glaciers,  comes  far  below  the  snow- 
line. For  as  the  ice  wliich  forms  the  glacier  gi-adually 
melts  away  at  the  lower  extremity  next  tlie  valley,  the 
ice  from  above  pre.-ses  on  and  fills  its  place.  The  gla- 
cier is  in  fact  a  slowly  advancing  stream  of  ice.  And 
all  the  glaciers  are  gradually  retreating  into  the  moun- 
tains, as  increasing  cultivation  and  population  make  the 
lower  extremity  melt  away  somewhat  faster  than  the 
waste  can  be  suj)plied.  Starting  from  far  in  the  icy 
bosom  of  the  Alps,  in  the  region  of  perpetual  snow,  the 
Grindelwald  glaciers  come  down  to  within  a  few  yards 
of  as  green  and  rich  grass  as  (if  you  were  a  cow)  you 
would  desire  to  eat. 

Now  we  walk  for  an  hour  thi'ough  meadows  in  the 
valley,  pausing  at  a  chrdot  to  have  some  Alpine  straw- 
berries, small  and  llavorlcss  ;  and  so  at  five  o'clock  on 
Monday  afternoon  enter  Grindelwald.  The  inns  are 
filled  with  travellers  ;  but  we  are  lucky  in  finding  space 
at  the  Adler,  whose  windows  look  full  on  tiie  Lower 

15* 


346  FROM   SATURDAY   TO  MONDAY. 

Glacier,  at  the  distance  of  a  mile.  From  a  great  black- 
looking  cave  at  the  end  (jf  the  glacier,  a  river  breaks 
away,  of  the  dirty  whity-brown  water  that  comes  from 
glacier?.  It  is  a  curious  tiling  to  see  a  river  starting, 
full  grown  from  the  first.  Look  to  the  left  of  the  lower 
end  of  the  glacier,  the  ground  meets  the  ice.  Look  to 
the  right,  and  there  a  pretty  big  river,  that  looks  as  if  it 
had  burst  out  from  the  earth,  is  flowing  away  as  if  it 
had  run  a  score  of  miles. 

Let  the  traveller  refresh  himself  by  much-needed 
ablution;  they  give  you  pretty  large  basins  here.  And 
then  descending,  sit  down  to  dinner  at  the  tahle-d'hote. 
A  large  party,  almost  all  Germans.  So  are  the  waiters. 
Thus,  if  you  express  to  a  neighbor  your  conviction  that 
something  presented  to  you  as  chamois  is  in  truth  a 
portion  of  a  very  tough  and  aged  goat,  no  offence  is 
given. 

Shall  it  be  recorded  how,  after  dinner,  we  sat  in  the 
twilight  on  a  terrace  hard  by,  looking  at  the  glacier  and 
the  Alps;  how,  as  it  darkened  down,  we  entered  the 
dining-room  again,  and  there  beheld,  seated  at  tea,  a  cer- 
tain great  Anglican  prelate  ?  Shall  it  be  recorded  how, 
if  one  had  never  seen  nor  heard  of  him  before,  you 
might  have  learned  something  of  his  eloquence,  genial- 
ity, and  tact,  transcending  those  of  ordinary  men,  even 
from  that  hour  and  a  half  before  he  retired  to  rest? 
Shall  it  be  recorded  how,  having  begun  to  tell  a  story 
to  bis  own  party,  he  gradually  and  easily,  as  he  dis- 
cerned others  listening  with  interest,  addressed  himself 
to  them,  till  he  ended  his  story  in  the  audience  of  all  in 
that  large  chamber  ?  And  shall  it  be  recorded  how  two 
pretty  young  English  girls  sat  and  gazed  with  rapt  and 


I 


FROM   SATURDAY   TO   MONDAY.  347 

silont  admiration  on  the  great  man's  face?  Two  or 
tlirce  j-Qiinn;  fellows  who  had  sought  during  that  day  to 
commend  themselves  to  these  fair  beings  felt  themselves 
(you  could  see)  hopelessly  eclipsed  and  cut  out,  and 
regarded  the  unconscious  bishop  with  looks  of  fury. 
Happily  he  did  not  know,  so  it  did  liim  no  harm. 

My  friend  Mac  Spoon  recently  dilated,  in  my  hearing, 
on  the  advantages  of  Pocket  Diaries ;  which  (as  wise 
men  know)  are  not  records  of  passing  and  past  events, 
but  memoranda  of  engagements.  "  You  note  down  in 
these,"  said  he,  "  all  you  have  to  do  ;  while  yet  if  your 
book  should  be  lost,  and  so  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  stran- 
ger, he  could  not  for  his  life  understand  the  meaning  of 
your  inscriptions.  Thus,"  he  went  on,  "  you  see  how 
under  the  head  of  Thursday,  April  3 2d,  1864,  I  have 
marked  Jericho  Train  at  10.30.  Now  if  tliat  were  to 
fall  into  a  stranger's  possession,  he  could  make  nothing 
of  it,  he  would  not  know  what  it  meant  at  all.  But  as 
for  me,  the  moment  I  look  at  it,  I  know  that  it  means 
that  on  Thursday,  April  3 2d,  1864,  I  am  to  go  to  Jeri- 
cho by  the  10.30  train."  Such  were  the  individual's 
words.  And  now,  for  the  sake  of  those  readeis  who 
could  not  understand  that  mysterious  inscription,  I  think 
it  expedient  distinctly  to  neclarc,  that  the  reason  why 
this  history  is  called  From  Saturday  to  Monday  is,  that 
lit  gives  an  account  of  historical  events,  beginning  with 
Saturday  and  ending  on  ]\Ionday.  And  thus,  having 
reached  Monday  evening  (for  soon  after  the  bishop's 
story  everybody  went  to  bed),  my  task  is  done.  It  can 
never  transpire,  what  happened  on  the  Tuesday.  Per- 
haps something  happened  of  great  public  interest.  But 
if  I  were  to  record  it  here,  then  it  would  appear  a.s  if 


348  FROM  SATURDAY   TO  JIONDAY. 

what  occurred  on  Tuesday  occurcd  between  Saturday 
and  Monday,  Avhicli  is  absurd. 

The  remembrance  ot'  foreign  travel  is  pleasanter  than 
the  travel  itself.  For  in  remembrance  there  are  none 
of  the  hosts  that  are  dispelled  by  copious  camphor ;  rfo 
wear  of  the  muscles,  nor  of  the  lungs  and  heart;  no  eyes 
hot  and  blinded  with  the  sunshine  on  the  snow ;  no 
parched  throat  and  leathery  tongue ;  no  old  goat's  flesh 
disguished  as  chamois  venison.  The  little  drawbacks 
are  forgot :  but  the  absence  of  care  and  labor,  the  blue 
sky  and  the  bright  sun,  glacier  and  catax-act,  and  the 
snowy  Alps,  remain. 


CONCLUSION. 


I 


r  is  the  way  of  Providence,  m  most  cases, 
jrradually  to  wean  us  from  the  things  which 
we  must  learn  to  resign ;  and  it  has  been 
!l  so  with  this  holiday-time,  now  all  but  end- 
ed. It  is  not  now  what  it  was  when  we  came  here. 
The  leaves  wore  their  summer  green  when  we  came, 
now  they  have  faded  into  autumn  russet  and  gold.  The 
paths  are  strewn  deep  with  those  that  have  fallen ;  and 
even  in  the  quiet  sunshiny  at'lernoon,  some  bare  trees 
look  wintry  against  the  t^ky.  Like  the  leaves,  the  holi- 
day-time has  faded,  —  it  is  outgrown.  The  appetite 
foi-  work  has  revived,  and  all  of  us  now  look  forward 
with  as  fresh  interest  to  going  bark  to  the  city  to  work 
as  we  once  did  to  coming  away  i'runi  the  city  to  rest 
and  play. 

"We  have  been  weaned  by  slow  degrees.  Nature  is 
hedging  us  in.  Tlie  days  are  shortening  fast;  the 
breeze  strikes  chill  in  the  afternoons  as  they  darken. 
The  sea  sometimes  feels  bitter,  even  though  you  enter  it 
head  foremost.  Nor  have  there  lacked  dnys  of  ceaseles.s 
rain  and  of  keen  north  wind.  Two  liglithou.-es.  one 
casting  litful  flashes  across  the  water  and  one  burning 
with  a  steady  light,  become  great  ieatures  of  the  scene 


350  CONCLUSION. 

by  seven  o'clock  in  tlic  evening.  A  little  later,  there  is 
a  line  of  lights  that  .stretches  I'or  miles  at  the  base  of 
the  dark  hills  along  the  opposite  shore;  indoor  occupa- 
tions have  supplanted  evening  walks  ;  yet  a  day  or  two, 
and  those  lights  will  no  more  be  seen.  The  inliabitants 
of  the  dwellings  they  make  visible  will  have  returned  to 
the  great  city,  and  \evy  many  of  the  pretty  cottages  and 
houses  will  remain  untenanted  through  the  long  winter- 
time. 

As  these  last  days  are  passing,  one  feels  the  vague  re- 
morse which  is  felt  when  must  things  draw  to  an  end. 
One  feels  as  if  we  might  have  made  more  of  this  linie 
of  quiet  amid  the.se  beautiful  liills.  Surely  we  ougut  to 
have  enjoyed  the  place  and  the  time  more !  Tlius  we 
are  disposed  to  blame  ourselves,  but  to  blame  ourselves 
unjustly.  You  would  be  aware  of  the  like  tendency, 
parting  from  almost  anything,  no  matter  how  much  you 
had  made  of  it.  You  will  know  the  vague  remorse 
when  dear  friends  die,  thinking  yiju  ouglit  to  have  been 
kinder  to  them ;  you  will  know  it,  thcjugh  you  did  lor 
them  all  that  could  be  done  by  mortal.  And  when  you 
come  to  die,  my  friend,  looking  back  on  the  be.st-s])eiit 
life,  you  will  think  how  dillerently  you  would  spend  it 
were  it  to  be  spent  again.  Yon  will  j'eel  as  if  your  tal- 
ent had  been  very  poorly  occupied,  and  doubtless  with 
good  reason,  here. 

Last  night,  there  was  a  magnificent  sunset.  You 
saw  the  great  red  ball  above  tlie  mountains,  visibly 
going  down.  It  was  curious  to  watch  the  space  be- 
tween the  sun  and  the  dark  ridge  beneath  it  le.ssening 
moment  by  moment,  till  the  sun  slowly  sunk  from  sight. 


CONCLUSION.  31  i 

Of  coarse,  he  had  been  approaching  his  setting  just  au 
fast  all  day  as  in  those  last  minutes  above  the  horizon  ; 
but  there  was  something  infinitely  more  striking  about 
the  very  end.  At  broad  noonday,  it  is  not  so  easy  to 
fully  take  in  the  great  truth  which  Dr.  Johnson  had 
engraved  on  the  dial  of  his  watch,  that  he  might  be 
often  reminded  of  it,  —  the  solemn  Ni/^  yap  ipx^erai.  It 
is  in  the  last  minutes  that  we  are  made  to  think  that  we 
ought  to  have  valued  the  sun  more  when  we  had  him, 
and  valued  more  the  day  he  measured  out. 

Day  by  day  this  volume  has  grown  up  through  this 
holiday-time.  In  its  earlier  portion,  the  author  diligently 
revised  the  chapters  you  have  read.  And  by  and  by, 
the  leisurely  postman  brought  the  daily  pages  of  pleas- 
ing type,  in  which  things  look  so  different  from  what 
they  look  in  the  cramped  magazine  printing.  Great  is 
the  enjoyment  which  antique  ornamentd  and  large  initial 
letters  afford  to  a  simjde  mind. 

And  now  it  is  the  forenoon  of  our  last  day  here  ;  we 
go  early  to-morrow  morning.  Play-time  is  past,  and 
work-time  is  to  begin.  I  hear  voices  outside,  and  the 
pattering  of  little  feet ;  there  are  the  sea  and  the  hills  ; 
and  all  tlie  place  is  pervaded  by  the  sound  of  the  waves. 
On  no  day  through  our  time  here  did  the  place  look  as 
it  does  now ;  it  wears  the  peculiar  aspect  which  comes 
over  places  from  which  you  are  parting.  How  fast  the 
holidays  have  slipi)ed  away !  And  what  a  beautiful 
scene  this  is  !  What  a  pretty  little  Gotliic  church  it  is, 
in  which  for  these  Sundays  that  are  gone  the  writer  lias 
taken  part  of  the  duty  ;  how  green  the  ivy  on  the  cliffs, 
and  the  i)atlis  through  the  woods  ;  what  perpetual  life 
in  that  ceaseless  fluctuation  of  which  you  seldom  lose 


352 


CONCLUSION. 


Bight  for  long !  But  we  must  all  set  our  f;ices  to  the 
months  of  work  once  more,  thankful  to  feel  fit  for  them  ; 
not  without  some  anxiety  in  the  prospect  of  them  ; 
looking  for  the  guidance  and  help  of  that  kindest  Hand 
ivhich  has  led  throudi  the  like  before. 


LEISUEE  HOUES  IN  TOWN 


^fK      ^K     ifm 


LEISURE  HOURS  IN  TOWN 


BY   THE  AUTHOR  OF 

THE  RECREATIONS  OF  A  COUNTRY  PARSON 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1884. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PISI 

CONCERNING  THE  PARSON'S  LEISURE   HOURS  IN  TOAVN         7 

CHAPTER  II. 
CONCERNING   VEAL  ;  A    DISCOURSE   OF   IMMATURITY     •      16 

CHAPTER  III. 
CONCERNING   THINGS   SLOWLY   LEARNT         67 

CHAPTER  IV. 
GONE 98 

CHAPTER  V. 

CONCERNING    PEOPLE    OF    WHOM    MORE    MIGHT    HAVE 

BEEN    MADE 103 

CHAPTER  VI. 

CONCERNING  PEOPLE  WHO  CARRIED  WEIGHT  IN  LIFE  : 
WITH  SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  THOSE  WHO  NEVER 
HAD    A    CHANCE 138 

CHAPTER  VII. 
COLLEGE    LIFE    AT    GLASGOW 172 

CHAPTER  VI  ri. 

CONCERNING      THE      WORLD'S     OPINION,     WITH      SOME 

THOUGHTS    ON    COWED    PEOPLE 210 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

PAQI 
CONCERNING   THE   SORROWS   OF   CHILDHOOD    ....   244 

CHAPTER  I.. 

THE    ORGAN   QUESTION    IN    SCOTLAND 274 

CHAPTER  XL 
THORNDALE;   or,    the    CONFLICT    OF    OPINIONS    .      .       .    295 

CHAPTER  xn. 

CONCERNING   A   GREAT   SCOTCH   PREACHER       ....   334 

CHAPTER  XHI. 
UDLITA    THE    SERF 371 

CHAPTER  XrV. 
SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES 405 


CONCLUSION 485 


CHAPTER   L 

CONCERNING    THE   PARSON'S    LEISURE    HOURS 
IN   TOWN. 


HIS  is  Friday  evening.  It  has  been  a 
gloomy  November  day.  And  now,  about 
nine  o'clock,  I  hear  the  wind  moaning  as 
if  there  were  to  be  a  stormy  night.  But 
the  fire  is  blazing,  and  the  curtains  are  drawn :  and 
here,  in  this  little  room,  once  the  study  of  a  wit  and  a 
poet,  things  are  almost  as  quiet  as  if  it  were  miles  away 
from  the  great  city  in  which  it  is.  You  might  hear  an 
occasional  shout,  from  a  street  which  is  not  far  distant : 
and  I  am  aware  of  a  sound  which  appears  to  originate 
in  the  beating  of  carpets  in  the  lane  bcliind  this  row  of 
houses.  But  the  door-bell,  which  rings  perpetually  in 
the  forenoon,  and  very  frequently  in  the  evening,  is  not 
likely  to  be  rung  any  more  to-night  by  any  one  whose 
business  is  with  me:  and  no  himiljle  parishioner,  inter- 
rupting the  thread  of  one's  tliouglits,  is  likely  to  come 
now  upon  his  little  errand  to  liis  minister.  This  is  indeed 
an  hour  of  leisure  :  and  oh,  what  a  rest  and  relief  such 
an  hour  is,  to  the  man  who  has  it  only  now  ami  then  ! 

Both  my  sermons  for  Sunday  are  ready;  and  they  are 
in  a  drawer  in  this  table  on  which  I  write.  I  liave  seen, 
I  believe,  every  sick  person  in  the  congregation  on  -ome 
day  during  this  week.     As  for  the  parish,  that  is  by  I'ar 


8  CONCERNING  THE 

too  large  and  populous  to  be  personally  overtaken  by  any 
single  clei'gynian  ;  but  I  have  the  great  comfort  of  being 
aided  by  a  machinery  of  district  visitation,  which  does  not 
suffer  one  poor  person  in  the  parish  to  feel  that  he  is  for- 
gotten in  his  parish  church.  I  cannot,  at  this  moment, 
think  of  any  one  matter  of  ministerial  duty  which  de- 
mands instant  attention  :  though  of  course  I  have  the 
vague  sense,  which  I  suppose  will  never  be  absent,  that 
there  are  many  duties  impending;  many  things  which 
Monday  morning  at  the  latest  will  bring.  Surely,  then, 
if  such  are  ever  to  come  in  a  large  town  parish,  here  is 
one  of  my  leisure  hours. 

When  a  country  parson,  leaving  a  little  rustic  cure, 
undertakes  the  charge  of  such  a  parish,  if  he  be  a  man 
whose  heart  is  in  his  work,  he  is  quite  certain  greatly  to 
overwork  himself.  It  is  indeed  a  lotal  change,  from  the 
quiet  of  a  country  parish,  where  dwellings  are  dotted 
singly  here  and  there,  with  great  fields  between  them, 
to  the  town,  where  street  after  street  of  tall  houses  is 
filled  with  your  parishioners,  all  entitled  to  some  measure 
of  your  care  and  tliought.  And  with  that  change,  there 
comes  a  sudden  acceleration  of  the  wheels  of  life.  You 
begin  to  live  in  a  hurry.  Your  mind  gets  into  a  feverish 
state.  You  live  under  a  constant  feeling  of  pressure. 
You  think,  while  you  are  doing  anything,  that  something 
else  is  waiting  to  be  done.  It  need  not  be  said  that  such 
a  feeling  is,  with  most  men,  quite  fatal  to  doing  one's 
best :  more  particularly  with  the  pen.  And  if  you  be  of 
an  anxious  temperament,  the  time  never  comes  in  wliicli 
you  can  sit  down  and  rest,  feeling  that  your  work  is  done. 
You  sit  down  sometimes  and  rest,  through  |)ure  fatigue 
and  exhaustion  :  but  all  the  while  you  are  thinking  of 
eomething  else  which  demands  to  be  done,  and  which  you 


PARSON'S   LEISURE   HOURS   IN  TOWN.  9 

are  anxious  to  do.  You  will  often  wish  for  the  precious 
power  possessed  by  some  men,  of  taking  things  easily 
you  may  even  sometimes  sigh  for  the  robust  resolution 
of  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow.  "  I  divide  my  work,"  he 
said,  "  into  three  parts.  Part  I  do :  part  does  itself: 
and  part  I  leave  undone."  But  many  men  could  not 
for  their  lives  resolve  to  do  this  last.  They  go  with  a 
hearty  will  at  their  work,  till  body  and  mind  bieak 
down. 

There  is  no  work  so  hard,  to  a  conscientious  man,  as 
that  which  he  may  make  as  ea>y  or  as  hard  as  he  chooses. 
It  is  a  great  blessing  to  have  one's  task  set;  and  to  be 
able  to  feel,  when  you  have  done  it,  that  your  work  is 
done,  and  that  you  may  rest  with  a  clear  conscience. 
But  in  the  Church,  that  can  never  be.  There  is  always 
something  more  that  might  be  done.  What  clergyman 
Ciin  say  that  he  has  done  for  the  good  of  his  parish  all 
that  is  possible  for  man  to  do  ;  —  that  there  is  no  new 
religious  or  benevolent  agency  which  by  energy  yet  more 
unsparing  might  be  set  in  operation  ?  It  may  here  be 
said,  that  I  do  not  in  any  degree  approve  the  system  of 
trying  to  dragoon  peo|)le,  whether  poor  or  rich,  into 
attention  to  their  religious  duties  and  interests,  which  is 
attempted  by  some  good  people  whose  zeal  exceeds  their 
discretion  :  and  that  I  have  no  fancy  for  making  a  church, 
wiiat  with  perpetual  meetings,  endless  societies,  and  ever- 
recui-ring  collections  of  money  for  this  and  that  purpose, 
look  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  great  cotton-mill,  with 
countless  wheels  whirring  away,  and  dazing  the  brain 
liy  their  ceaseless  motion.  It  is  fit  to  recognize  the  fact, 
that  the  poorest  folk  are  responsible  beings;  and  that 
intelligent  artisans  will  not  submit  to  be  treated  like  chil- 
dren, even  by  people  who  wish  to  make  them  good  chil- 


10  CONCERNING  THE 

dien.  And  you  know  that  a  boy,  who  has  learnt  to  swlia 
by  the  aid  of  corks  and  bhidder?;,  is  very  apt  to  sink  when 
that  support  is  taken  away.  His  power  of  swimming  is 
not  worth  much.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  even  so  with  that 
form  of  religion,  which  can  be  kept  alive  only  by  a  con- 
stant series  of  visits,  exhortations,  tracts',  and  week-day 
church-services.  I  venture  to  judge  no  man :  but  give 
me,  say  I,  not  the  sickly  exotic,  but  the  hearty  evergreen, 
that  can  bear  frosts  and  winds.  But  the  faithful  clergy- 
man, even  trying  to  hold  this  princii)le  in  view,  will  iind, 
in  a  large  parish  in  a  great  city,  work  that  would  occupy 
him  profitably,  were  each  of  his  days  as  long  as  a  week, 
and  had  he  the  strength  of  half  a  score  of  men.  I  firmly 
believe,  that  almost  all  the  clergymen  I  know  do  day 
by  day  their  very  utmost  to  overtake  that  overwhelm- 
ing duty.  And  now  and  then,  there  comes  a  special 
sense  of  the  clergyman's  weighty  responsibility,  and  of 
the  momentous  consequences  that  may  depend  upon  his 
exertions :  and  under  that  stimulus,  resolving  "  to  spend 
and  be  spent"  in  the  work  to  which  he  has  given  him- 
self, you  will  find  him  laboring  in  a  fasliion  that  endan- 
gers  health   and   life. 

Now,  it  is  not  right  to  do  tJiat.  Even  setting  apart  the 
consideration  of  the  duty  he  owes  his  children,  his  duty 
to  the  Church  is  to  work  in  that  fashion  in  which  he  may 
hope  to  labor  longest  and  most  efficiently.  And  that, 
fashion  is  not  the  breathless  and  feverish  one.  Yet 
nothing  but  constant  watchfulness  and  firmness  can  pre- 
vent the  town  clergyman's  life  from  growing  one  of 
chronic  hurry  and  weariness.  It  is  not  merely  his 
preaching,  and  his  preparation  for  preaching:  but  the 
other  calls  of  duty  are  innumerable  Pound  after  pound 
is  added,  till  the  camel  labors  along  with  weary  foot :  or 


PARSON'S   LEISURE  HOURS  IN  TOWN.  11 

even  till  the  camel's  back  is  broken.  It  is  the  rule  in 
large  towns,  so  far  as  I  have  known  them,  that  the  clergy 
shall  be  overwrought.  Not  that  thej  are  overdriven 
by  the  unreasonable  expectations  of  their  parishioners  ; 
(hough  that  may  sometimes  be  the  case :  but  that  they 
are  spurred  on  by  the  exactions  of  their  own  conscience. 
Then,  every  now  and  then,  you  will  find  one  making  a 
stand  against  this  over-pressure :  feeling  tiiat  he  is  break- 
ing down  ;  and  determining  that  he  must  have  some 
leisure.  You  will  find  him  beginning  to  take  an  hour's 
daily  walk ;  or  resolutely  setting  himself  to  maintain 
some  acquaintance  with  the  literature  of  the  day.  You 
will  find  him  resolving  to  see  a  little  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, besides  what  he  sees  of  them  in  the  way  of  his 
duty  ;  and  wondering  if  many  men  know  what  it  is  to 
feel,  for  days  together,  every  word  they  speak  an  effort, 
and  almost  every  step  they  walk.  But  all  this  is  as 
when  you  determine  to  break  yourself  of  the  bad  habit 
of  walking  too  fast.  You  are  walking  along  at  five  miles 
an  hour.  You  pull  up,  and  resolve  you  shall  walk  slowly. 
You  set  off  at  a  moderate  pace.  But  in  a  few  minutes 
you  cease  to  think  of  the  rate  at  which  you  are  progress- 
ing: and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  you  find  of  a  sudden 
tliat  you  are  going  on  at  your  old  unreasonable  speed 
ngain. 

Going  through  your  duty  at  this  high  pressure,  you 
will,  in  a  few  m.onths,  find  wliat  will  follow.  Your  brain 
gets  fevered:  your  mind  is  confused:  you  cannot  take  a 
calm  and  delibeiate  view  of  any  large  subject :  and  by 
degrees  your  heart  (I  speak  literally,  not  morally)  tells 
you  that  this  will  not  do.  You  seem  almost  to  have  lost 
the  power  of  sleeping.  And  you  find,  that  if  you  are  to 
live  and   labor  much  longer  in  this  world,  you  must  do 


12  CONCERNING  THE 

one  of  two  tilings:  either  you  mu>t  go  back  again  to  the 
country,  or  you  must  make  a  definitive  arrangement  that 
you  shall  have  some  a])preciable  amount  of  leisure  in 
town.  You  may  probably  find,  on  looking  back,  that 
for  a  long  time  you  have  had  none  at  all:  except,  in- 
deed, in  that  autumnal  holiday,  whicli  will  not  suffice  to 
keep  up  for  a  whole  year's  work :  and  whose  good  effect 
you  have  probably  used  up  within  three  weeks  after  its 
close.  Yes,  you  must  have  leisure :  a  little  of  it  every 
day :  a  half-holiday  at  least  once  a  week.  And  I  do  not 
call  it  satisfactory  leisure,  when,  at  the  close  of  a  jading 
day,  you  sit  down,  wearied  beyond  talking,  reading,  or 
thinking :  and  feeling  the  presence  even  of  your  chil- 
dren too  much  ibr  your  shaken  nerves.  I  call  it  leisure, 
Avhen  you  can  sit  down  in  tlu^  evening,  tired  indeed,  but 
not  exhausted  beyond  chasing  your  little  boy  or  girl  about 
the  lobby,  and  thinking  of  the  soft  green  turf  of  quieter 
days.  I  call  it  leisure  to  sit  down  in  your  easy -chair  by 
the  fireside,  and  to  feel  tliat  you  may  peacefully  think,  and 
dream  if  you  please:  that  you  may  look  vacantly  into 
the  fire  :  that  you  may  read  the  new  review  or  magazine 
by  little  bits:  that  you  may  give  your  mind  total  rest. 
And  to  this  end,  let  us  fix  it  in  our  remembrance,  that  all 
our  Master  requires  of  us  is  to  do  what  we  can  :  and 
that  if  after  we  have  done  our  utmost,  there  still  remains 
much  more  we  would  wish  to  do,  we  must  train  ourselves 
to  look  at  it  without  disquiet,  even  as  we  train  ourselves 
to  be  submissive  in  the  presence  of  the  inexplicable  mys- 
teries and  the  irremediable  evils  which  are  inherent  in 
the  present  system  of  things.  No  doubt,  it  is  hard  to  do 
this  ;  but  it  is  the  clergyman's  duty  to  do  it.  You  have 
no  more  right  to  commit  suicide  by  systematically  over- 
tasking your  constitution,   than   by  swifter  and   coarser 


PARSON'S   LEISURE  HOURS   IN  TOWN.  13 

means.  Life  is  given  to  you  as  a  trust  to  make  the  best 
of;  and  probably  the  worst  you  can  make  of  it  is  to  cut 
it  short,  or  to  embitter  it  by  physical  exhaustion  and  de- 
pression. 

I  dare  say  many  clergymen  with  large  parishes  have 
known  what  it  is  to  delight  in  a  day  of  dreadful  rain  and 
hurricane  :  I  mean  a  day  when  chimney-pots  and  slates 
are  flying  about  the  streets;  and  when  no  question  can 
be  raised,  even  by  the  most  exacting  moral  sense,  as  to 
whether  it  is  possible  to  go  out  or  not.  A  forenoon  of 
leisure  comes  so  very  seldom,  that  it  is  very  precious  and 
enjoyable  when  it  comes.  The  leisure  hours  commonly 
attainable  are  in  the  evening.  If  you  sit  at  your  desk 
from  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  till  one  or  two  in  the 
afternoon :  and  if  you  then  go  out  to  your  pastoral  work 
till  six :  you  may  very  fairly  lay  it  down  as  a  general 
rule,  that  at  six  the  day's  work  shall  be  deemed  over. 
In  addition  to  this,  it  may  be  well  to  make  the  afternoon 
of  Saturday  a  time  of  recreation.  You  will  be  much 
fitter  for  your  Sunday  work,  which  implies  a  good  deal 
of  physical  latigue  as  well  as  mental  wear.  And  I  begin 
to  doubt  if  it  be  good  or  safe  to  begin  the  round  of  labor 
again  on  Monday  after  breakfast :  and  to  think  that  pos- 
sibly as  much  work  would  be  done,  and  better  done,  if 
the  forenoon  of  that  day  were  given  to  recruiting  one's 
energies  after  the  Sunday  duty.  And  I  am  not  claiming 
these  seasons  of  leisure  for  the  clergymen,  merely  for 
Aristotle's  reason  :  merely  because  "  the  end  of  work  is 
to  enjoy  leisure : "  merely  because  leisure  is  pleasant, 
and  the  hard-working  parson  has  earned  it  fairly.  I 
think  not  merely  of  the  pleasure  of  the  pastor,  but  of 
the  profit  of  the  flock.  I  do  not  think  it  expedient  that 
a  Christian  consreeratiou  should  eet  almost  all  its  relig- 


14  CONCERNING  THE 

ious  instruclion  from  a  fevered  and  overdriven  mind.  J 
have  been  struck,  in  listening  to  the  preaching  of  one  or 
two  very  able  and  very  laborious  friends,  by  a  certain 
lack  of  calmness  and  sobriety  of  thought :  by  a  somo- 
thing  that  reminded  one  of  the  atmosphere  of  a  hot- 
house, and  that  seemed  undefinably  inconsistent  with  the 
realities  of  daily  life.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  all  this 
came  of  the  fact,  that  they  lived,  worked,  and  wrote,  in 
chronic  excitement  and  hurry. 

I  trust  that  my  non-clerical  readers  will  pardon  all  this 
professional  matter:  it  is  a  comfort  to  talk  out  one's  mind 
even  to  friends  whom  one  will  never  see.  I  dare  say 
discerning  folk  will  know,  tliat  the  writer  has  been  de- 
scribing his  own  constant  temptation  ;  and  that,  however 
needful  he  may  feel  these  seasons  of  rest  to  be,  it  is  only 
now  and  then  that  he  can  train  himself  to  take  them. 
And  he  has  found  that  nothing  gives  the  mind  more 
effectual  rest,  than  change  of  employment.  You  have 
heard,  doubtless,  of  that  mill-horse,  which  all  days  of  the 
week  but  Sunday  was  engaged  in  walking  round  and 
round  a  certain  narrow  circle.  You  may  remember 
what  was  the  Sunday's  occupation  of  that  sagacious 
creature.  An  unthinking  person  might  have  surmised 
that  the  horse,  which  had  peritetually  to  walk  on  working 
days,  would  have  chosen  on  its  day  of  rest  to  lie  still  and 
do  nothing.  But  the  horse  knew  better.  It  spent  Sun- 
day in  walking  round  and  round,  in  the  opposite  direo» 
lion  from  that  in  which  it  walked  on  week-days.  It 
found  rest,  in  short,  not  in  idleness  ;  but  in  variation 
of  employment.  I  commend  that  horse,  t  have  tried 
to  do  something  analogous  to  what  it  did.  These  essaya 
have  been  to  me  a  pleasant  change,  from  the  writing  of 
many  sermons.     And  even  in  leisure  hours,  if  it  be  (as 


PARSON'S  LEISURE  HOURS   IN  TOWN.  15 

Sydney  Smith  said)  "  the  nature  of  the  animal  to  write,* 
the  pen  will  be  taken  up  naturally  and  habitually. 

I  can  say  sincerely,  that  more  important  duties  have 
never  been  postponed  to  the  production  of  these  chap- 
ters :  and  I  please  myself  with  the  belief,  that  the  handa 
into  which  this  volume  is  likely  to  fall,  will  not  be  those 
cf  total  strangers.  You  may  perhaps  find,  my  friendly 
reader,  that  these  essays  of  an  old  friend,  whom  you 
knew  in  the  days  when  he  was  a  country  parson,  have 
somewhat  changed  their  character,  in  consistence  with 
bis  total  change  of  life.  But  I  have  reason  to  cherish 
a  quiet  trust,  that  they  have  done  good  to  some  of  ray 
fellow-creatures.  I  suppose  the  like  happens  to  all  au- 
thors, who  write  in  sincerity  and  in  kindness  of  heart : 
but  I  cannot  forget  what  numbers  of  men  and  women, 
otherwise  unknown,  from  either  side  of  the  Atlantic,  have 
cheered  and  encouraged  the  writer,  sometimes  in  weary 
hours,  by  thanking  him  for  some  little  good  impression 
left  by  these  pages  upon  heart  and  life.  I  have  not 
been  able  to  forego  the  great  delight  of  trying  to  pro- 
duce what  might  afford  some  pleasure  and  profit  to 
friends  far  beyond  the  boundaries  of  my  parish  :  nor 
have   I  been    able    to    think    that    it    was    my  duty  tc 

do    BO. 


CHAPTER  11. 
CONCERNING  VEAL: 

A    DISCOURSE    OF    IMHATURITT. 


HE  man  who,  in  his  progress  through  life, 
has  listened  with  attention  to  the  conversa- 
tion of  human  beings  ;  who  has  carefully 
read  the  writings  of  the  best  English  au- 
thors ;  who  has  made  himself  well  acquainted  with  the 
history  and  usages  of  his  native  land  ;  and  who  has 
meditated  much  on  ail  he  has  seem  and  read ;  must 
have  been  led  to  the  tirm  conviction  that  by  Veal, 
those  who  speak  the  English  language  intend  to  denote 
the  flesh  of  calves  ;  and  that  by  a  calf  is  intended  an 
immature  ox  or  cow.  A  calf  is  a  creature  in  a  tempo- 
rary and  progressive  stage  of  its  being.  It  will  not 
always  be  a  calf;  if  it  live  long  enough,  it  will  as- 
suredly cease  to  be  a  calf.  And  if  impatient  man,  arrest- 
ing the  creature  at  that  stage,  should  consign  it  to  the 
bands  of  him  whose  business  it  is  to  convert  the  sentient 
animal  into  the  impassive  and  unconscious  meat,  the  nu- 
triment which  the  creature  will  aflford  will  be  nothing 
more  than  immature  beef.  There  may  be  many  qualities 
of  Veal;  the  calf  which  yields  it  may  die  at  very  differ- 
ent stages  in  its  physical  and  moral  development ;  but 
provided  only  it  die  as  a  calf  —  provided  only  that  its 


CONCERNING  VEAL.  17 

riu;at  can  fitly  be  styled  Veal  —  this  will  be  character- 
istic of  it,  tliat  the  meat  sliall  be  immature  meat.  It 
may  be  very  good,  very  nutritious  and  ])ahitable  ;  some 
people  may  like  it  better  than  beef,  and  may  feed  upon 
it  with  the  liveliest  satisfaction  ;  but  when  it  is  fairly  and 
deliberately  put  to  us,  it  must  be  admitted  even  by  such 
as  like  Veal  the  best,  that  Veal  is  but  an  immature  pro- 
duction of  nature.  I  take  Veal,  therefore,  as  the  em- 
blem of  Immaturity;  of  that  which  is  now  in  a  stage 
out  of  which  it  must  grow  ;  of  that  whicli,  as  time  goes 
on,  will  grow  older,  will  probably  grow  better,  will  cer- 
tainly grow  very  different.  Tliat  is  what  I  mean  by 
Veal. 

And  now,  my  reader  and  friend,  you  will  discern  the 
subject  about  whicii  I  trust- we  are  to  have  some  pleasant 
and  not  unprofitable  thought  together.  You  will  readily 
believe  that  my  subject  is  not  that  material  Veal  wiiich 
may  be  beheld  and  purchased  in  the  butcher's  shops.  I 
am  not  now  to  treat  of  its  varied  qualities,  of  the  suste- 
nance which  it  yields,  of  the  price  at  which  it  may  be 
])rocured,  or  of  the  laws  according  to  whieh  that  price 
rises  and  falls.  I  am  not  going  to  take  you  to  the  green 
liclds  in  which  the  creature  which  yielded  the  veal  was 
fed,  or  to  discourse  of  the  blossoming  hawthorn  hedges 
from  whose  mid-t  it  was  reft  awav.  Neither  shall  I 
speak  of  the  rustic  life,  the  toils,  cares,  and  f;uici(?s  of 
the  farm-house  near  which  it  spent  its  brief  lifetime. 
The  Veal  of  which  I  intend  to  speak  is  Moral  Veal,  or 
(to  speak  with  entire  accuracy).  Veal  Intellectual,  Moral, 
and  ^sthetical.  By  Veal  I  understand  the  immature 
])i-oductions  of  the  human  mind  ;  immature  compositions, 
immature  opinions,  feelings,  and  tastes.  I  wish  to  think 
of  the  work,  the  views,  the  fancies,  the  emotions,  which 
2 


18  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

nre  yii'ldcd  by  the  !iii;n:in  soul  in  its  iinmatniw  stases » 
wliilo  the  cah  (so  to  speak)  is  only  fjrowing  into  the  ox; 
while  the  clever  boy,  with  his  absurd  opinions  and  fever- 
ish f'cclinijjs  and  fancies,  is  developiu;^  into  the  mature 
and  sober-minded  man.  And  if  I  could  but  righdy  set 
out  the  thouglits  which  liave  at  many  different  times 
occuned  to  nie  on  this  matter,  if  one  could  catch  and  lix 
the  vague  glimpses  and  passing  intuitions  of  solid  un- 
changing truth,  if  the  subject  on  which  one  has  thouglit 
long  and  felt  deeply  were  always  that  on  which  one  could 
write  best,  and  could  bring  out  to  tiie  sympathy  of  others 
what  a  man  himself  has  felt,  what  an  excellent  essay  this 
would  be  !  But  it  will  not  be  so  ;  for  as  I  try  to  grasp 
the  thoughts  I  would  set  out,  ihey  melt  away  and  elude 
me.  It  is  like  trying  to  catrh  and  keep  the  rainbow 
hues  you  have  seen  tiie  sunshine  cast  upon  the  spray  of 
a  waterfall,  when  you  try  to  catch  the  tone,  the  thoughts, 
the  feelings,  the  atmosphere  of  early  youth. 

There  can  be  no  question  at  all  as  to  the  fact,  that 
clever  youjig  men  and  women,  when  their  minds  begin 
to  o[)en,  when  they  begin  to  think  for  themselves,  do  pass 
through  a  stage  of  mental  development  which  they  by 
and  by  quite  outgrow  ;  and  entertain  opinions  and  be- 
liefs, and  feel  emotions,  on  which  afterwards  they  look 
back  with  no  sympathy  or  approval.  Tiiis  is  a  fact  as 
certain  as  that  a  calf  grows  into  an  ox,  or  that  veal,  if 
spared  to  grow,  will  become  beef.  But  no  analogy  be- 
tween the  material  and  the  moral  must  be  pushed  too  far. 
There  are  points  of  difference  between  material  and' 
moral  Veal.  A  calf  knows  it  is  a  calf.  It  may  think 
itself  bigger  and  wiser  than  an  ox,  but  it  knows  it  is 
not  an  ox.     And  if  it  be  a  reasonable  calf,  modest,  and 


CONCEUKIXG    VEAL.  19 

free  from   prejudice,  it  is  well  awaiv  that    tlie   joints  it 
will    jieW  after  its  demise,  will  be  very  different  from 
those    of   the    stately    and    well-consolidated    ox    which 
ruminates  in  the  rieh   pa.-tiire  near  it.     But  the  human 
boy  often   thinks   he   is    a    man,  and   even   more   than  a 
man.     He  fancies  that  his  mental  stature  is  as  big  and 
as  solid  as  it  will  ever    become.     lie    fancies    that    his 
rnontal  productions  —  the    poems    and  essays  he  writes, 
the  political  and  social  views  he  forms,   the    moods    of 
feeling  with  which    he    regards    things  —  are  just  what 
they  may  always  be,  just  what  they  ought  always  to  be. 
If  spared  in  this  world,  and  if  he  be  one  of  those  whom 
years  make   wiser,  the  day  comes  when   he  looks  back 
with  amazement  and  shame  on  those  early  mental  pro- 
ductions.    He  discerns  now  how  immature,  absurd,  and 
extravagant  they  were ;  in  brief,  how  vealy.     But  at  the 
time,  he  had  not  the  least  idea  that  they  were  so.     He 
had  entire  confidence  in   himself;  not  a  misgiving  as  to 
his  own  ability  and  wisdom.     You,  clever  young  student 
of  eighteen  years  old,  when  }  on  wrote  your  prize  essay, 
fancied  that  in  thought  and  style  it  was  very  like  INIacau- 
lay ;  and  not  Maeaulay  in   that  stage  of  vealy  brilliancy 
in  which  he  wrote  his  essay  on  Milton,  not  Maeaulay  the 
fairest  and  most   promising  of  calves,  but  Maeaulay  the 
Rtateliest  and  most  beautiful  of  oxen.     Well,  read  over 
your  essay  now  at  thirty,  and  tell  us  what  you   think  of 
it.     And  you,  clever,  warm-hearted,  enthusiastic  young 
preacher  of  twenty-four,  wrote  your  vSermon ;  it  was  very 
ingenious,  very  brilliant  in  style,  and  you  never  thought, 
but   that  it  would  be  felt   by   mature-minded    Christian 
people  as  suiting  their  ease,  as  tiue  to  their  inmo.-t  ex- 
perience.    You  could  not  see  why  you  might  not  preach 
as  well  as  a  man  of  forty.     And  if  people  in  middle  age 


20  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

had  complained  that,  elofjut'iit  as  your  preaclnnp;  was, 
they  ibuiul  it  suited  iheiu  better  and  jji-ofited  them  morii 
to  listen  to  the  iilaiiier  instructions  of  some  good  man 
with  gray  hair,  you  would  not  have  understood  their  feel- 
ing;  an<l  you  migiit  perhaps  have  attributed  it  to  many 
motives  rather  than  the  true  one.  IJut  now,  at  Hvc-and- 
Ihirty,  find  out  the  yellow  manuscript,  and  read  it  care- 
fully over;  and  I  will  venture  to  eay,  that  if  you  were  a 
really  clever  and  eloquent  young  man,  writing  in  an  am- 
bitious and  rhetorical  style,  and  prompted  to  do  so  by  the 
spontaneous  fervor  of  your  heart  and  readiness  of  your 
imagination,  you  will  leel  now  little  sympathy  even  with 
the  literary  style  of  that  early  compo>ition  ;  you  will  see 
extravagance  and  bombast  where  once  you  saw  only  elo- 
quence and  graphic  power.  And  as  for  the  graver  and 
more  important  matter  of  the  thought  of  the  discourse,  I 
think  you  will  be  aware  of  a  certain  undefinable  shallow- 
ness and  crudity.  Your  growing  experience  has  borne 
you  beyond  it.  Somehow  you  feel  it  does  not  come  home 
tc  jou,  and  suit  yuu  as  you  would  wish  it  should.  It  will 
not  r]o.  That  old  sermon  you  cannot  preach  now,  till  you 
have  entirely  recast  and  rewritten  it.  But  you  had  no 
such  notion  when  you  wrote  the  sermon.  You  were 
satisfied  with  it.  You  thought  it  even  better  than  the 
dii courses  of  men  as  clever  as  yourselfj  and  ten  or  fifteen 
years  older.  Your  case  was  as  though  the  youthful  calf 
should  walk  beside  the  sturdy  ox,  and  think  itself  rather 
bigger. 

Let  no  clever  young  reader  fancy  from  what  has  been 
said,  that  I  am  about  to  make  an  onslaught  upon  clever 
young  men.  I  remember  too  distinctly  how  bitter  and 
indeed  ferocious  I  used  to  feel,  about  eleven  or  twelve 
years  ago,  when  I  have  heard  men  of  more  than  middle 


COXCERNIXG  VEAL.  21 

age  and  less  than  middling  ability  speak  with  contemptu- 
ous depreciation  of  the  piodLictions  and  doings  of  nien 
considerably  their  juniors,  and  vastly  their  superiors; 
describing  them  as  hoys,  and  as  clever  lads,  with  looks 
of  dark  malignity.  There  are  few  more  disgusting  sights, 
than  the  envy  and  jealousy  of  their  juniors,  which  may 
be  seen  in  various  malicious,  commonplace  old  men  ;  as 
there  is  hardly  a  more  beautiful  and  pleasing  sight  than 
the  old  man  hailing,  and  coun.^elling,  and  encouraging  the 
youthful  genius  which  he  knows  far  surpasses  his  own. 
And  1.  my  young  i'riend  of  two-and-twenty,  who  relatively 
to  you,  may  be  regai'ded  as  old,  am  going  to  assume  no 
preposterous  airs  of  supericjrity.  1  do  not  claim  to  be  a 
bit  wiser  than  you  ;  all  1  claim  is  to  be  older.  I.  have 
outgrown  your  stage  ;  but  1  was  once  such  as  you,  and 
all  my  sympathies  are  with  you  yet.  But  it  is  a  difficulty 
in  the  way  of  the  essayist,  and,  indeed,  of  all  who  set  out 
opinions  which  they  wish  to  be  received  and  acted  on  by 
their  fellow-creatures,  that  they  seem,  by  the  very  act  of 
oftering  advice  to  others,  to  claim  to  be  wiser  and  better 
than  those  whom  they  adsise.  But  in  reality  it  is  not  so. 
The  opinions  of  the  essayist  or  of  the  preacher,  if  deserv- 
ing of  notice  at  all,  are  so  because  of  their  inherent  truth, 
and  not  because  he  expresses  them.  Estimate  them  for 
yourself,  and  give  them  the  weight  which  you  think  their 
due.  And  be  sure  of  this,  that  the  writer,  if  earnest  and 
sincere,  addressed  all  he  said  to  himself  as  much  as  to  any 
one  else.  This  is  the  thing  which  redeems  all  didactic 
writing  or  speaking  from  the  charge  of  offensive  assump- 
tion and  self-assertion.  Jt  is  not  for  the  preacher, 
whether  of  moral  or  religious  truth,  to  address  his  fel- 
lows as  outside  sinners,  worse  than  himself,  and  needing 
to  be  reminded  of  that  of  which  he  does  not  need  to  be  re- 


22  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

iniiuled.  No,  llie  earnest  preacher  j)reaches  to  liiinself  as 
iniicli  as  to  any  in  tlie  conjirejiation  ;  it  is  from  llie  picture 
ever  before  liirn  in  liisown  weak  and  wayward  heart,  that 
he  learns  (o  reach  and  describe  the  hearts  of  others,  if  in- 
deed he  do  so  at  alL    And  it  is  the  same  with  lesser  things. 

It  is  curious  and  it  is  instructive  to  remark  how 
heartily  men,  as  they  grow  towards  middle  age,  despise 
themselves  as  they  were  a  fiiw  years  since.  It  is  a  bitter 
thing  for  a  man  to  confess  that  he  is  a  fool ;  but  it  costs 
little  effort  to  declare  that  he  teas  a  fool,  a  good  while 
ago.  Indeed,  a  tacit  cunipiinient  to  his  present  self  is 
involved  in  the  latter  conles.-ion  ;  it  suggests  the  reflec- 
tion what  progress  he  has  made,  and  iiow  vastly  he  has 
improved,  since  then.  Wiien  a  man  informs  us  that  he 
was  a  very  silly  fellow  in  tlu;  j'car  1851,  it  is  assumed 
that  he  is  not  a  \<^ry  silly  fellow  in  the  year  18G1.  It  is 
as  when  the  merchant  with  ten  thousand  a  year,  sitting 
at  his  sunipluous  table,  and  sip])ing  his  '41  claret,  tells 
3'ou  how,  when  he  came  as  a  raw  lad  from  the  country, 
he  used  olten  to  have  to  go  without  iiis  dinner.  He 
knows  that  the  plate,  the  wine,  the  massively  elegant 
apaitnieiit,  the  silent  servants  so  alert  yet  so  impassive, 
will  appear  to  join  in  chorus  with  the  obvious  suggestion, 
"  You  see  he  has  not  to  go  without  liis  dinner  now  !"  Did 
you  ever,  when  twenty  years  old,  look  back  at  tiie  diary 
you  kept  when  you  were  sixteen  ;  or  when  twenty-five 
at  the  diary  you  kept  when  twenty  ;  or  at  tliiity,  at  the 
diary  you  kept  when  twenty-live?  Was  nut  }our  feeling 
a  singular  mixture  of  luimiliatJon  and  self-com])]aceney  ? 
What  extravagant,  silly  stuli"  it  seemed  lliat  }ou  had  thus 
written  five  years  belbre  !  What  V^eal ;  and  oh  wiiat  a 
calf  he  must  have  been  who  wrote  it!     It  is  a  difficuU 


CONCERNING  YEAL.  23 

question,  to  wliicli  the  answer  cannot  be  elicited,  Who  is 
ihe  greatest  fool  in  this  world?  But  every  candid  and 
sensible  man  of  middle  age,  knows  thoroughly  well  the 
answer  to  the  question,  Who  was  the  greatest  fool  that 
he  himself  ever  knew  ?  And  after  all,  it  is  your  diary 
especially  if  you  were  wont  to  introduce  into  it  poetical 
remarks  and  moral  reflections,  that  will  mainly  help  you 
to  the  humiliating  conclusion.  Other  tilings,  some  of 
which  I  have  already  named,  will  point  in  the  same 
direction.  Look  at  the  prize  essays  you  wrote  when 
you  were  a  boy  at  school  ;  look  even  at  your  earlier 
prize  essays  written  at  college  (tliough  of  these  last  I 
have  something  to  say  hereafter)  ;  look  at  tlie  letters  you 
wrote  home  when  away  at  school  or  even  at  college,  es- 
pecially if  you  were  a  clever  boy,  trying  to  write  in  a 
graphic  and  witty  fashion ;  and  if  you  have  reached  sense 
at  last  (which  some,  it  may  be  remarked,  never  do),  I 
think  you  will  blush  even  through  the  unblushing  front 
of  manhood,  and  think  what  a  terrific,  unutterable,  con- 
ceiled,  intolerable  blockhead  you  were.  It  is  not  till  peo- 
ple attain  somewhat  mature  years  that  they  can  rightly 
understand  the  wonderful  forbearance  their  parents  must 
have  shown  in  listening  patiently  to  the  frightful  nonsense 
they  talked  and  wrote.  I  have  already  spoken  of  ser- 
mons. If  you  go  early  into  the  Church,  say  at  twenty- 
three  or  twenty-four,  and  write  sermons  regularly  and 
diligently,  you  know  what  landmarks  they  will  be  of 
your  mental  progress.  The  first  runnings  of  the  stream 
are  turbid,  but  it  clears  itself  into  sense  and  taste  month 
by  montli  and  year  by  year.  You  wrote  many  sermons 
in  your  first  year  or  two  ;  you  ])reache(l  them  with  entire 
contidence  in  them,  and  they  did  really  keep  up  the  at- 
tention of  the  congregation  in  a  remarkable  way.     You 


24  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

accumulate  in  a  box  a  store  of  tliat  valuable  literature 
and  theology,  and  wlien  by  and  by  you  go  to  another 
parish,  you  iiave  u  coinlbriable  I'eeliiig  that  you  have  a 
capital  stock  to  go  on  with.  You  think  that  any  Mon- 
dyy  morning  wiien  you  have  the  prospect  of  a  very  busy 
week,  or  wlien  you  feel  very  weary,  you  may  resolve 
hat  you  sliall  write  no  sermon  tiiat  week,  but  just  go 
and  draw  forth  one  from  the  box.  I  have  already  said 
what  you  will  piobably  iind,  even  if  you  draw  forth  ? 
discourse  which  cost  much  labor.  You  cannot  use  it  as 
it  stands.  Possibly  it  may  be  structural  and  essential 
Veal :  the  whole  framework  of  tlioiigiit  may  be  imma- 
ture. Possibly  it  may  be  Veal  only  in  style;  and  by 
cutting  out  a  turgid  sentence  h(^re  and  theie,  and  above 
all,  by  cutting  out  all  the  ])assages  wh!ch  you  thought 
particulaily  eloquent,  llie  di.-coiJi\-e  may  do  yet.  liut 
even  then,  you  cannot  give  it  with  much  conlidence. 
Your  mind  can  yield  sometliing  better  than  that  now. 
I  imagine  how  a  fine  old  orange-tree,  that  bears  oranges 
witli  tlie  thinnest  ])Ossible  skin  and  with  no  pips,  juicy 
and  rich,  might  feel  that  it  has  outgrown  tiie  fruit  of  its 
first  years,  when  tiie  skin  was  half  an  inch  thick,  the 
j)ips  innumerable,  and  the  eatable  portion  small  and  poor. 
It  is  witli  a  feeling  such  as  that  tliat  3-ou  read  over  your 
early  sermon.  Still,  mingling  with  the  sense  of  shame, 
there  is  a  certain  satisfaction.  You  have  not  been  stand- 
ing still ;  you  have  been  getting  on.  And  we  always  like 
to  think  tltat. 

What  is  it  that  makes  intellectual  Veal  ?  What  are 
the  things  about  a  composition  which  stamp  it  as  such  ? 
Well,  it  is  a  certain  character  in  thouglit  and  style  hard 
to  define,  but  strongly  felt  by  such  as  discern  its  presence 


CONCERNING  YEAL.  25 

at  all.  It  is  strongly  felt  by  professors  reading  the  com- 
positions of  their  .•-tudents,  especially  the  coniposiiions  of 
the  cleverest  stiulcnts.  It  is  strongly  felt  by  educated 
folk  of  nriddle  age,  in  listening  to  the  sermons  of  young 
pulpit  orators,  especially  of  snch  as  think  for  themselves, 
of  such  as  aim  at  a  high  standard  of  excellence,  of  such 
as  have  in  them  the  makings  of  striking  and  eloquent 
preachers.  Dull  and  stupid  fellows  never  deviate  into 
the  extravagance  and  ab.'-urdity  which  I  specially  under- 
stand by  Veal.  They  plod  along  in  a  humdrum  manner  : 
there  is  no  poetry  in  their  soul ;  none  of  ^those  ambitious 
stirrings  which  lead  the  man  who  has  in  him  the  true 
spark  of  genius  to  try  tor  grand  things  and  incur  severe 
and  ignominious  tumbles.  A  heavy  dray-horse,  walking 
along  the  road,  may  possibly  advance  at  a  very  lagging 
pace,  or  may  even  stand  still ;  but  whatever  he  may  do, 
he  is  not  likely  to  jump  violently  over  the  hedge,  or  to 
gallop  off  at  twenty -five  miles  an  hour.  It  must  be  a 
thorough-bred  who  will  go  wrong  in  that  grand  fasliion. 
And  there  are  intellectual  absurdities  and  extravagances 
which  hold  out  hopeful  promise  of  noble  doings  yet  :  tiie 
eagle,  which  will  breast  the  hurricane  yet,  may  meet 
various  awkward  tumbles  before 'he  learns  the  fashion 
in  which  to  use  tlio:-e  iion  wings.  But  the  substantial 
goose,  which  [)rubably  escapes  those  tumbles  in  trying  to 
fly,  will  never  do  anything  very  magnilicent  in  the  way 
of  Hying.  The  njan  wiio  in  his  early  days  writes  in  a 
very  inflated  and  bomba^tic  style,  will  giadually  sober 
down  into  good  sense  and  accurate  ta^te,  still  retaining 
something  of  liveliness  and  elo(juence.  But  expect  little 
of  the  man  who  as  a  boy  was  always  sensible,  and  never 
bombastic.  He  will  grow  awfully  dry.  He  is  sure  to 
fall  into  the  unpardonable  sin  of  tiresomeness.     The  rulo 


26  CONCERNING   VEAL. 

has  exceptions  ;  but  the  earliest  productions  of  a  man  of 
real  genius  are  almost  always  crude,  flippant,  and  afiect- 
edly  smart  ;  or  else  turgid  and  extravagant  in  a  iiigh 
degree.  Witness  Mr.  Disraeli ;  witness  Sir  E.  B.  Lyt- 
ton  ;  witness  even  Macaulay.  The  man  who  as  a  mere 
boy  writes  something  very  sound  and  sensible,  will  prob- 
ably never  become  more  than  a  dull,  sensible,  common- 
place man.  jNIany  people  can  say,  as  they  bethink 
themselves  of  their  old  college  companions,  that  those 
who  wrote  with  good  sense  and  good  taste  at  twenty, 
have  mo.-tly  settled  down  into  the  dullest  and  baldest  ol" 
prosers  ;  while  such  as  dealt  in  bombastic  flourishes  and 
absurd  ambitiousness  of  style,  have  learned  as  time  went 
on  to  prune  their  early  luxuriances,  while  still  retaining 
something  of  raciness,  interest,  and  ornament. 

I  have  been  speaking  very  generally  of  the  character- 
istics of  Veal  in  composition.  It  is  difficult  to  give  any 
accurate  description  of  it  that  shall  go  into  minuter  de- 
tails. Of  course  it  is  easy  to  think  of  little  external 
marks  of  the  beast  —  that  is,  the  calf.  It  is  Veal  in 
style  when  jieople,  writing  prose,  think  it  a  fine  tiling  to 
write  o'er  instead  of  'over,  ne'er  instead  of  never,  poesie 
instead  of  -poetry,  and  melhinks  under  any  circumstances 
whatsoever.  References  to  the  heart  are  generally  of 
the  nature  of  veal,  also  allusions  to  the  mysterious  throb- 
bings  and  yearMiiig>  of  our  nature.  The  word  grand  has 
of  late  come  to  excite  a  strong  suspicion  of  Veal  ;  and 
when  I  read  the  other  day  in  a  certain  poem  something 
about  a  yrent  grand  man,  I  concluded  that  the  writer  of 
that  poem  is  meanwhile  a  great  grand  calf.  The  only 
case  in  which  the  words  may  properly  be  used  together 
is  in  speaking  of  }our  great  grandfather.     To  talk  about 


CONCERNING   VEAL.  27 

mine  afTV'ctions,  meaning  my  aifections.  is  Veal ;  and  mine 
honnie  love  was  decided  Veal,  tliongh  it  was  wi-itten  by 
Charlotte  Bronte.  To  say  mcnjhap,  wlien  you  mean  per- 
haps, is  Veal.  So  is  it  al^o  to  talk  of  human  ken,  when 
you  mean  human  knowledge.  To  speak  of  something 
higher  and  holier  is  invariably  Veal :  and  it  is  usually 
Veal  to  speak  of  something  deeper.  Wife  mine  is  Veal, 
though  it  stands  in  Tlie  Caxtons.  I  should  rather  like  tr. 
see  the  man  who  in  aetiiai  life  is  accustomed  to  address 
his  spouse  in  that  fashion.  To  say  Not,  oh  never,  shall 
we  do  so  and  so,  is  outrageous  Veal.  Sylvan  grove  or 
sylvan  vale  in  ordinary  conversation  is  Veal.  The  word 
glorious  should  be  used  witli  caution  ;  when  applied  to 
trees,  mountains,  or  the  like,  there  is  a  strong  suspicion 
of  Veal  about  it.  But  one  feels  that  in  saying  these 
things  we  are  not  getting  at  the  essence  of  Veal.  It  is 
Veal  in  thought  that  is  essential  Veal,  and  that  is  very 
hard  to  define.  Beyond  extravagant  language,  beyond 
absurd  fine  things,  it  lies  in  a  certain  lack  of  reality  and 
sobri{;ty  of  sense  and  view  —  in  a  certain  indefinable 
jejuneness  in  the  mental  tine  provided,  which  makes 
mature  men  feel  that  somehow  it  does  not  satisfy  their 
cravings.  You  know  what  I  mean  better  than  I  can 
express  it.  You  have  seen  and  heard  a  young  preacher, 
with  a  rosy  fiice  and  an  unlliied  brow,  preaching  al)out 
the  cares  and  trials  of  life.  Well,  you  ju^-t  feel  at  once 
lie  knows  nothing  about  them.  You  feel  that  all  this  ia 
at  second-hand,  lie  is  saying  all  this  because  lie  sup- 
poses it  is  the  right  thing  to  say.  Give  me  the  pilot  to 
direct  me  who  has  sailed  through  the  dillicult  channel 
many  a  time  himself!  Give  me  the,  iriend  to  sympathize 
with  me  in  sorrow,  who  has  felt  the  like.  There  is  a 
hoUowness,  a  certain  want,  in  the  talk  about   much  trib- 


28  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

ulation  of  tlie  V(My  cleverest  man  who  has  never  felt 
any  great  soriow  at  all.  The  great  force  and  value  of 
all  teacliing  lie  in  the  aniount  of  personal  experience 
which  is  embodied  in  it.  You  fed  the  difference  be- 
tween the  production  of  a  wonderfully  clever  boy  and 
of  a  mature  man  when  you  read  the  first  canto  of  Childe 
Harold  and  then  read  Philip  van  Artevelde.  I  do  not 
say  but  that  the  boy's  production  may  have  a  liveliness 
and  interest  beyond  the  man's.  Veal  is  in  certain  re- 
spects superior  to  beef,  though  beef  is  best  on  the  whole. 
I  have  heard  vealy  preachers  whose  sermons  kept  up 
breathless  attention.  From  the  first  word  to  the  last  of 
a  sermon  wliic-h  was  niKiuestionable  Veal,  I  have  wit- 
nessed an  entire  congregation  listen  wiih  that  audible 
hush  you  know.  It  was  veiy  different  indeed  from  the 
state  of  matters  when  a  humdrum  old  gentleman  was 
preaching,  every  word  spoken  by  whom  was  the  maturest 
sense,  expressed  in  words  to  which  the  most  fastidious 
taste  could  have  taken  no  excej)tion ;  but  then  the  whole 
thing  was  sleepy  ;  it  was  a  terrible  effort  to  attend.  In 
the  case  of  the  Veal  there  was  no  etfoi"t  at  all.  I  defy 
yon  to  help  attending.  But  then  you  sat  in  pain.  Every 
secjnd  sentence  there  was  some  outrageous  offence  agains*, 
good  taste  ;  eveiy  third  statement  was  absurd  or  over- 
drawn or  almost  profane.  You  felt  occasional  thrills  of 
j)ure  disgust  and  horror,  and  you  wei'e  in  terror  what 
might  come  next.  One  thing  which  tended  to  carry  all 
this  off  was  the  manifest  confidence  and  earnestness  of 
the  speaker.  He  did  not  think  it  Veal  that  he  was  say- 
ing. And  though  great  con.-ternalion  was  depicted  on 
the  faces  of  some  of  the  better  educated  peo[)le  in  church, 
you  could  see  that  a  very  considerable  part  of  the  con- 
gregation did  not  think  it  Veal  either.     There  can  be  no 


CONCERNING  VEAL.  29 

lloiibt,  my  middle-aged  friend,  if  you  could  but  give  youi 
early  pennons  now  with  the  confidence  and  fire  of  the 
time  when  you  wrote  them,  they  would  make  a  deep 
impression  on  many  people  yet.  But  it  is  simply  impos- 
sible for  you  to  give  them  ;  and  if  you  should  force  your- 
self some  i-ainy  Sunday  to  preach  one  of  tliem,  you  would 
give  it  with  such  a  sense  of  its  errors,  and  with  such  an 
Absence  of  corresponding  feeling,  that  it  would  fall  very 
flat  and  dead.  Your  views  are  maturing:  your  taste  is 
growing  fastidious;  the  strong  things  you  once  said  you 
could  not  bring  yourself  to  say  now.  If  you  could  preach 
those  old  sermons,  there  is  no  doubt  they  would  go  down 
with  the  mass  of  uncultivated  folk,  —  go  down  better  than 
your  mature  and  reasonable  ones.  We  have  all  known 
such  cases  as  that  of  a  young  prfticher  who,  at  twenty- 
five,  in  his  days  of  Veal,  di'ew  great  crowds  to  the  church 
at  which  he  preaclied  ;  and  who  at  thirty-five,  being  a 
good  deal  tamed  and  sobered,  and  in  the  judgment  of 
competent  judges  vastly  improved,  attracted  no  more  than 
a  respectable  congregation.  A  vei-y  great  and  eloquent 
preacher  lately  lamented  to  me  the  uselessness  of  his 
store  of  early  discourses.  If  he  could  but  get  rid  of  hi.s 
present  .standard  of  what  is  right  and  good  in  thought 
and  language,  and  preach  them  with  the  enchaining  fire 
with  which  he  preached  them  once  !  For  many  hearers 
remain  immature,  though  tiie  preacher  has  matured. 
Young  people  are  growing  up,  and  there  are  peoj  le 
whose  taste  never  ripens  beyond  the  enjoyment  of  Veal. 
There  is  a  period  in  the  mental  development  of  those 
who  will  be  ablest  and  maturest,  at  which  vealy  thought 
and  language  are  accepted  as  the  best.  Veal  will  be 
highly  ap[)reciated  by  sympathetic  calves;  and  the  great- 
est men,  with  rare  exceptions,  arc  calves  in  youth,  while 


30  CONCERXIXG   VEAL. 

many  human  beings  are  calves  forever.  And  here  1 
may  remark,  as  something  which  has  affbnled  me  conso- 
lation on  various  occasions  witliin  tlie  hist  year,  that  it 
seems  unquestionable  that  sermons  which  are  utterly 
revolting  to  people  of  taste  and  sense,  have  done  much 
good  to  large  masses  of  those  people  in  whom  common 
sen-e  is  most  imperfectly  developed,  and  in  whom  tast( 
is  not  developed  at  all ;  and  accordingly,  wherever  one 
is  convinced  of  the  sincerity  of  the  individuals,  however 
foolish  and  uneducated,  who  go  about  pouring  forth  those 
violent,  exaggerated,  and  all  but  blasphemous  discourses 
of  which  I  have  read  accounts  in  the  newspapers,  one 
would  humbly  hope  that  a  Power  which  works  by  many 
means,  would  bring  about  good  even  through  an  instru- 
mentality which  it  isMiard  to  contemplate  without  some 
measure  of  horror.  The  impression  produced  by  most 
things  in  this  world  is  relative  to  the  minds  on  wliich  the 
impression  is  proiluced.  A  coarse  balhid,  deficient  in 
rhyme  and  rhythm,  and  only  half  decent,  will  keep  up 
the  attention  of  a  rustic  group  to  whom  you  might  read 
from  In  Memoriam  in  vain.  A  waistcoat  of  glaring 
scarlet  will  be  esteemed  by  a  country  bumpkin  a  garment 
every  way  preferable  to  one  of  aspect  more  subdued. 
A  nigger  melody  will  cliarm  many  a  one  who  would 
yawn  at  Beethoven.  You  must  have  rough  means  to 
move  rough  people.  I'he  outrageous  revival-orator  may 
do  good  to  peo])le  to  whom  Bishop  Wilberforce  or  Dr. 
Caird  might  [)reach  to  no  purpose;;  and  if  real  good 
l)e  done,  by  whatever  means,  all  right-minded  people 
should  rejoice  to  hear  of  it. 

And  this  leads  to  an  important  ]iractical  question,  on 
which  men  at  different  periods  of  life  will  never  agree 


COMCERNING   VEAL.  31 

fVken  shall  thouglit  be  regarded  as  mature?  Is  there  a 
standard  by  wliich  we  can  ascertain  beyond  question 
whether  a  composition  be  Veal  or  Beef?  I  sigh  for  fixity 
and  assurance  in  matters  ffisthetical.  It  is  vexatious 
that  what  I  think  very  good  ray  friend  Smith  thinks  very 
bad.  It  is  vexatious  that  what  strikes  me  as  supreme 
and  unapproaeliable  excellence,  strikes  another  person  at 
least  as  competent  to  form  an  opinion,  as  poor.  And  I  am 
angry  with  myself  when  I  feel  that  I  honestly  regard  a3 
inflated  commonplace  and  m^-stical  jargon,  what  a  man  as 
old  and  (let  us  say)  nearly  as  wise  as  myself  thinks  the 
utterance  of  a  prophet.  You  know  how,  when  you  con- 
template the  purciiase  of  a  horse,  you  lead  him  up  to  the 
measuring-bar,  and  there  ascertain  the  precise  number  of 
hands  and  inches  which  he  stands.  How  have  I  longed  for 
the  means  of  subjecting  the  mental  stature  of  human  beings 
to  an  analogous  process  of  measurement  !  Oh  for  some 
recognized  and  unerring  gauge  of  mental  calibre  !  It 
would  be  a  grand  thing  if  somewhere  in  a  very  conspic- 
uous position  —  say  on  the  site  of  the  National  Gallery 
at  Charing-cross  —  there  were  a  pillar  erected,  graduated 
by  some  new  Fahrenheit,  on  which  we  could  measure  the 
height  of  a  man's  mind.  How  delightful  it  would  be  to 
drag  up  some  pompous  pretender  who  passes  off"  at  once 
upon  himself  and  others  as  a  profound  and  able  man, 
and  make  him  measure  his  height  upon  that  pillar,  and 
uiidcrstand  beyond  all  cavil  what  a  pigmy  lie  is  !  And 
how  pleasant,  too,  it  would  be  to  bring  up  some  man  of 
unacknowledged  genius,  and  make  the  world  see  the 
reach  oi' /lis  intellectual  stature  I  The  mass  of  educated 
people  even  are  so  incapable  of  forming  an  estimate  of  a 
man's  ability,  that  it  would  be  a  blessing  if  men  could 
be  sent  out  into  the  world  witli   the  stamp  uj)on  theni; 


32  COXCERNING  YEAL. 

tellinpr  what  are  their  weight  and  vahie,  plain  for  every 
one  to  see.  But  of  course  tliere  are  many  ways  in 
whicli  a  hook,  serinDU,  or  essay,  may  he  had  witliout  be- 
ing Vealy.  It  may  he  dull,  stnpid,  illogical,  and  the  like, 
and  yet  have  nothing  of  hoyishness  ahout  it.  It  may  he 
insutferahly  had,  yet  qniie  mature,  liecf  may  he  had, 
and  yet  undouhledly  beef.  And  the  question  now  is,  not 
PC  much  whether  there  be  a  standard  of  what  is  in  a 
literary  sense  good  or  bad,  as  whether  there  he  a  stand- 
ard of  what  is  Veal  and  what  is  Beef.  And  there  is  a 
great  difficulty  here.  Is  a  thing  to  be  regarded  as  mature 
when  it  suits  your  present  taste  ;  when  it  is  approved  by 
your  present  deliberate  judgment  ?  For  your  taste  is  al- 
ways changing:  your  standard  is  not  the  same  for  three 
successive  years  of  your  early  youth.  The  Veal  you  now 
despise  you  thought  Beef  when  you  wrote  it.  And  so, 
too,  with  the  productions  of  other  mt^n.  You  cannot  read 
now  without  amazement  the  book.-,  which  used  to  enchant 
you  as  a  chihl.  I  remember  when  I  used  to  lead  Iler- 
vey's  Meditatiuiis  with  great  delight.  That  was  when 
I  was  about  five  years  old.  A  year  or  two  later  I 
gi-eatly  affected  INIacpherson's  translation  of  Ossian.  It 
is  not  so  very  long  since  I  felt  the  liveliest  interest  in 
Tupper's  Proverbial  Plitlosopliy.  Let  me  confess  that  I 
retain  a  kindly  i'eeling  towanls  it  yet;  and  that  I  am 
fflad  to  see  that  .-ome  hundreds  of  thousands  of  readers 
appear  to  be  still  in  the  stage  out  of  which  I  passed  some 
years  since.  Yes,  as  you  grow  older  your  taste  changes  ; 
it  becomes  more  fastidious  ;  and  especially  you  come  to 
have  always  le^s  toleration  for  sentimental  feeling  and  for 
flights  of  fancy.  And  besides  this  gi-adual  and  constant 
progression,  which  holds  on  uniformly  year  after  year, 
there  are  changes  in  mood  and  taste  sometimes  from  day 


CONCERNIXG   VEAL.  33 

to  day  and  from  hour  to  hour.  The  man  who  did  a  very 
silly  thing  thought  it  was  a  wise  thing  when  he  did  it. 
He  sees  the  matter  differently  in  a  little  while.  On  the 
evening  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  the  Duke  of  "Wel- 
lington wrote  a  certain  letter.  History  does  not  record 
its  matter  or  style.  But  history  does  record  that  some 
years  afterwards  the  Duke  paid  a  hundred  guineas  to  get 
it  back  again;  and  tliat  on  getting  it  he  instantly  burnt  it, 
exclaiming  that  when  he  wrote  it  he  must  have  been  the 
greatest  idiot  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Doubtless,  if  we 
had  seen  that  letter,  we  sliould  Iiave  heartily  coincided  in 
the  sentiment  of  the  hero.  He  was  an  idiot  when  he 
wrote  it,  but  he  did  not  think  that  he  was  one.  I  think, 
however,  that  there  is  a  standard  of  sense  and  folly ;  and 
that  there  is  a  point  at  which  Veal  is  Veal  no  more.  But 
I  do  not  believe  that  thought  can  justly  be  called  mature 
only  when  it  has  become  such  as  (o  suit  the  taste  of  some 
desperately  dry  old  gentleman  with  as  much  feeling  as  a 
log  of  wood,  and  as  mucli  imagination  as  an  oyster.  I 
know  how  intolerant  some  dull  old  fogies  are  of  youthful 
fire  and  fancy.  I  shall  not  be  convinced  that  any  dis- 
course is  puerile  because  it  is  pronounced  such  by  the 
venerable  Dr.  Dryasdust.  I  remember  that  the  vener- 
able man  has  written  many  pages,  possibly  abundant  in 
sound  sense,  but  which  no  mortal  could  read,  and  to 
which  no  mortal  could  listen.  I  remember  that  though 
that  not  very  amiable  individual  has  outlived  such  wits 
as  he  once  had,  he  has  not  outlived  tlie  unbecoming  emo- 
tions of  envy  and  jealousy  ;  and  he  retains  a  strong  ten- 
dency to  evil-speaking  and  slandering.  You  told  me, 
unamiable  individual,  lu)W  di^gu-ted  you  were  at  hear- 
ing a  friend  of  mine  who  is  one  of  the  best  preachers  in 
Britain,  preach  one  of  his  finest  sermons.     Perhaps  you 


84  CONCERNING    VEAL. 

really  were  disgusted  :  there  is  such  a  thin2;  as  casting 
pearls  before  swine,  who  will  not  appreciate  them  iiiglily. 
But  you  went  on  to  give  an  account  of  wliat  tlie  great 
preacher  said  ;  and  though  I  know  you  are  extremely 
stupid,  you  are  not  quite  so  stupid  as  to  have  actually 
fancied  that  the  great  preacher  said  what  you  reported 
that  he  said  :  you  were  well  aware  that  you  were  gros.sly 
misrepresenting  him.  And  Avhen  I  find  malice  and  in- 
sincerity in  one  respect  I  am  ready  to  suspect  them  in 
another :  and  I  venture  to  doubt  whether  you  were  dis- 
gusted. Possibly,  you  were  only  ferocious  at  finding 
yourself  so  unspeakal)ly  fsxcelled.  But  even  if  you  had 
been  really  disgusted ;  and  even  if  you  were  a  clever 
man  ;  and  even  if  you  were  above  the  suspicion  of  jeal- 
ousy;  I  should  not  think  that  my  friend's  noble  discourse 
was  puerile  because  you  tiiought  it  so.  It  is  not  when 
the  warm  feeling-;  of  earlier  days  are  dried  up  into  a 
cold,  time-worn  cynicism,  that  I  think  a  man  has  become 
the  best  judge  of  the  products  of  the  human  brain  and 
heart.  It  is  a  noble  thing  when  a  man  grows  old,  retain- 
ing something  of  youthful  freshness  and  fervor.  It  is  a 
fine  thing  to  ripen  without  shrivelling:  to  reach  the  calm- 
ness of  age,  yet  keep  the  warm  iieart  and  ready  sympa- 
thy of  youth.  Show  me  such  a  man  as  that,  and  I  shall 
be  content  to  bow  to  It'is  decision  wiiether  a  thing  be  Veal 
or  not.  But  as  such  men  are  not  found  very  frequently,  I 
ehould  suggest  it  as  an  a|)pioximation  to  a  safe  criterion, 
that  a  thing  may  be.  regardt'd  as  mature  when  it  is  de- 
liberately and  dispassionately  approved  by  an  educated 
man  of  good  ability,  and  above  thirty  years  of  age.  No 
doubt  a  man  of  fifty  may  hold  that  fifty  is  the  age  of 
sound  taste  and  sense  :  and  a  youth  of  twenty-three  may 
maintain  that  he  is  as  good  a  judge  of  human  doings  now 


CONCERNING  VEAL.  85 

as  he  will  ever  be.  I  do  not  claim  to  have  proposed  an 
infallible  stnndard.  I  give  you  my  present  belief,  being 
well  aware  that  it  is  very  likely  to  alter. 

It  is  not  desirable  that  one's  taste  should  become  too 
fastidious,  or  that  natural  feeling  should  be  refined  away. 
A.nd  a  cynical  young  man  is  bad,  but  a  cynical  old  one  is 
a  great  deal  worse.  The  cjnical  young  man  is  probably 
shamming;  he  is  a  humbug,  not  a  cynic.  But  the  old 
man  probably  is  a  cynic,  as  heartless  as  he  seems.  And 
without  thinking  of  cynici.-m,  real  or  affected,  let  us 
remember  that  though  the  ta^te  ought  to  be  refined 
and  daily  refining,  it  ought  not  to  be  refined  beyond 
being  practically  serviceable.  Let  things  be  good  ;  but 
not  loo  good  to  be  workable.  It  is  expedient  that  a  cart 
for  conveying  coals  should  be  of  neat  and  decent  appear- 
ance. Let  the  shafts  be  symmetrical,  the  boards  well- 
planed,  the  whole  strong  yet  not  clumsy  ;  and  over  the 
whole  let  the  painter's  skill  induce  a  hue  rosy  as  beauty's 
cheek,  or  dark-blue  as  lier  eye.  All  that  is  well  ;  and 
while  the  cart  will  carry  its  coals  satisfactorily,  it  will 
stand  a  good  deal  of  rough  usage,  and  it  will  please  the 
eye  of  the  rustic  who  sits  in  it  on  an  empty  sack,  and 
whistles  as  it  moves  along.  But  it  would  be  highly  inex- 
pedient to  make  that  cart  of  walnut  of  the  finest  grain 
and  marking,  and  to  have  it  Frencli-polished.  It  would 
be  too  fine  to  be  of  um;  ;  and  its  possessor  would  fear  to 
scratch  it ;  and  would  preserve  it  as  a  sliow,  seeking  some 
])lainer  vehicle  to  cai-i-y  iiis  cdids.  In  like  manner,  do 
not  refine  too  much  eitiier  tiie  products  of  llic  mind,  or 
the  sensibilities  of  the  taste  which  is  to  appreciate  them. 
I  know  an  amiable  professor  very  different  from  Dr.  Diy- 
asdiist.  He  was  a  country  clergyman  ;  a  ver}'  interest- 
ing plain  preacher.     But  when  he  got  his  chair,  he  had 


86  COXCERNING   VEAL. 

to  prearli  a  ^nnd  deal  in  the  college  cliapel ;  and  by  way 
of  accoinmodatiug  his  discourses  to  an  academic  audience, 
he  re-wrole  them  earet'nllj  ;  rubbed  oif  all  the  salient 
points;  cooled  down  whatever  warmth  was  in  them  to 
frigid  accuracy;  toned  down  everything  striking.  The 
result  was  that  his  sermons  became  eminently  classical 
and  elegant;  only  they  became  impossible  to  attend  to, 
and  impossible  to  remember.  And  when  yon  Jieard  the 
good  man  preach,  jou  sighed  for  the  I'ongh  and  striking 
lieartiness  of  formi.r  days.  Ami  we  have  all  heard  of 
such  a  thing  as  taste  refined  to  that  painful  sensitiveness, 
that  it  l)t'came  a  source  of  torment;  that  is,  luifitted  for 
common  enjoyments  and  even  for  common  duties.  There, 
was  once  a  gi'eat  man,  let  us  say  at  Melipotamus,  who 
never  went  to  clmnli.  A  clergyman  once  in  speaking  to 
a  fi'iend  of  the  great  man,  lamented  that  the  great  man 
v«et  so  bad  an  examph;  bcf'oi-c  his  humliler  neighbors. 
'•  How  can  that  man  go  to  cliurch,"  was  the  reply;  ''his 
taste  and  his  entire  <'ritical  faculty,  is  sharpened  to  that 
degree,  that  in  listening  to  any  oidinai-y  jireacher,  lu^  feels 
outraged  and  shocked  at  evavy  fourth  sentence  he  hears, 
by  its  inelegance  or  its  want  of  logic;  and  the  entire  ser- 
mon toinients  him  by  its  unsymmetrical  structure,  its 
want  of  pers|)(.'clive  in  the  presentment  of  details,  and 
its  general  literary  badness."  I  quite  believe  that  there 
was  a  moderate  pro[)ortion  of  truth  in  the  excuse  thus 
urged  ;  and  you  will  probaI)ly  judge  that  it  would  have 
been  better  had  the  gieat  man's  mind  not  been  brought 
to  so  painful  a  ])olish. 

Tiie  mention  of  dried-up  old  gentlemen  reminds  one 
of  a  que.-tion  which  has  sometimes  perplexed  me.  Is  it 
Vealv  to  •feel  or  to  show  keen  emotion  ?  Is  it  a  preciou::) 
result  and  indication  of  the  matuiity  of  the  human  mind, 


CONCERNING    VEAL.  87 

to  look  as  if  you  felt  nothing  at  all  ?  I  have  often  looked 
with  wonder,  and  with  a  moderate  amount  of  veneration, 
at  a  few  old  gentlemen  whom  I  know  well,  who  are  lead- 
ing members  of  a  certain  legislative  and  judieial  council, 
held  in  great  respect  in  a  country  of  which  no  more  need 
be  said.  1  have  beheld  these  old  gentlemen  .sitting  ap- 
parently quite  unmoved  when  discussions  were  going  on  in 
which  I  knew  they  felt  a  very  deep  interest,  and  when 
the  tide  of  debate  was  setting  strongly  against  their  pe- 
culiar view.s.  There  they  sat,  impassive  as  a  Red  Indian 
at  the  stake.  I  think  of  a  certain  man,  who,  while  a 
smart  speech  on  the  other  side  is  bein^  made,  retains  a 
countenance  expressing  actually  notiiing;  he  looks  as  if 
he  heard  nothing,  felt  nothing,  cared  for  nothing.  But 
when  the  other  man  sits  down,  he  rises  to  reply.  He 
speaks  slowly  at  first,  but  every  weighty  word  goes  home 
and  tells  :  he  gathers  warmth  and  rapidity  as  he  goes  on, 
and  in  a  little  you  become  aware  that  tor  a  ihw  himdred 
pounds  a  year,  you  may  .sometimes  get  a  man  who  would 
have  made  an  Attorney-General  or  a  Lord  Chancellor; 
you  discern  that  under  the  appearance  of  almost  stolidity, 
there  was  the  sharpest  attention  watching  every  word  of 
the  argument  of  the  other  speaker,  and  ready  to  come 
down  on  every  weak  point  in  it;  and  the  other  speaker  \? 
(in  a  logical  .sense)  pounded  to  jelly  by  a  succession  of 
straight-handed  hits.  Yes,  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  liiid 
a  combination  of  coolness  and  earnestness.  But  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  reason  why  some  old  gentle- 
men look  as  if  they  did  not  care,  is  that  in  fact  they  don't 
care.  And  there  is  no  particular  merit  in  looking  cool 
while  a  (juestion  is  being  discussed,  if  you  really  do  not 
mind  a  rush  which  way  it  may  be  decided.  A  keen, 
'invarying,  engrossing  regard    for  one's  self,  is  a  great 


38  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

saffiguard  against  over-excitement  in  regard  to  all 
the  questions  of  tlie  day,  political,  social,  and  relig- 
ious. 

It  is  a  curious  but  certain  fact,  that  clever  young  men, 
at  that  period  of  tiieir  life  when  their  own  likings  tend 
towards  Veal,  know  quite  well  the  difference  betweea 
veal  and  beef;  and  are  quite  able,  when  necessary,  to 
produce  the  latter.  The  tendency  lo  boyishness  of 
thought  and  style  may  be  repressed,  when  you  know  you 
are  writing  for  the  perusal  of  readers  with  wlioin  that 
will  not  go  down.  A  student  of  twenty,  who  has  in  him 
great  talent,  no  matter  how  undue  a  supremacy  his  im- 
agination may  meanwhile  Iiave,  if  he  be  set  to  producing 
an  essay  in  Metaphysics  to  be  read  by  pi'ofessors  of  phi- 
losophy, will  produce  a  composition  singularly  free  from 
any  trace  of  inuiialui-ity.  For  such  a  clever  youth, 
though  he  may  have  a  strong  bent  towards  Veal,  has  in 
him  an  instinctive  perception  that  it  is  Veal  ;  and  a  keen 
sense  of  what  will  and  will  not  do  for  the  particular  read- 
ers he  has  to  phase.  Go,  you  essayist  who  carried  off  a 
host  of  university  honors  ;  and  read  over  now  the  prize 
essays  you  wrote  at  twenty-one  or  twenty-two.  I  think 
the  thing  that  will  maiidy  strike  you  will  be,  how  very 
mature  the.-e  compositions  are  ;  how  ingenious,  how  ju- 
dicious, how  free  from  extiavngance,  how  (juietly  and 
accurately  and  even  felicitously  expressed.  They  are  not 
Veal.  And  yet  you  know,  that  several  years  after  you 
wrote  them  you  were  still  writing  a  great  deal  which  was 
Veal  beyond  all  question.  But  then  a  clever  youth  can 
produce  material  to  any  given  standard  ;  and  you  wrote 
the  essays  not  to  suit  your  own  taste,  but  to  suit  what 
you  intuitively  knew  was  the  taste  of  the  grave  and  even 


CONCERNING  VEAL.  39 

imoke-clried  professors  who  were  to  read  them  and  sit  in 
judgment  on  them. 

And  though  it  is  very  fit  and  right  that  the  academic 
standard  should  be  an  understood  one,  and  quite  different 
from  the  popukr  standard,  still  it  is  not  enough  that  a 
young  man  should  be  able  to  write  to  a  standard  against 
which  he  in  his  heart  rebels  and  protests.  It  is  yet  more 
important  that  you  should  get  him  to  approve  and  adopt 
a  standard  which  is  accurate,  if  not  severe.  It  is  quite 
extraordinary  what  bombastic  and  immature  sermons  are 
preaclied  in  their  first  years  in  the  Clmrch  by  young 
clergymen  who  wrote  many  academic  compositions  in  a 
style  the  most  classical.  It  seems  to  be  essential  that  a 
man  of  feeling  and  imagination  should  be  allowed  fairly  to 
run  himself  out.  Tiie  course  apparently  is,  that  the  tree 
should  send  out  its  rank  shoots,  and  then  that  you  should 
prune  them,  rather  than  that  by  some  repressive  means 
you  should  pi-event  the  rank  shoots  coming  forth  at  all. 
The  way  to  get  a  high-spirited  horse  to  be  content  to 
Kta}  peaceably  in  its  stall,  is  to  allow  it  to  have  a  tearing 
gallop,  and  thus  get  out  its  superfluous  nervous  excite- 
ment and  vital  spirit.  Let  the  boiler  blow  off  its  steam. 
All  repression  is  dangerous.  And  some  injudicious  folk, 
instead  of  encouraging  the  highly-charged  mind  and  heart 
to  relieve  themselves  by  blowing  off  in  excited  verse  and 
extravagant  bombast,  would  (so  to  speak)  sit  on  tha 
safety  valve.  Let  tlie  bur-ting  spring  flow  !  It  will  run 
turbid  at  first  ;  but  it  will  clear  itself  day  by  day.  Let  a 
young  man  write  a  vast  deal  :  the  more  he  writes,  the 
sooner  will  the  Veal  be  done  witli.  But  if  a  man  write 
vtry  liltlc  tiie  l)()iiil)ast  is  not  blown  ott';  and  it  may  re- 
main till  advaneed  years.  It  seems  as  if  a  certain  quan- 
tity of  fustian  must  be  blown  off  before  yo  i  reach  the 


40  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

good  material.  I  have  heard  a  mercantile  man  of  lll'ty 
read  a  paper  he  had  written  on  a  social  snbject.  He 
had  written  very  little  save  business  letters  all  his  life. 
And  I  assure  you  that  his  paper  was  bombastic  to  a  de- 
gree that  yon  would  have  said  was  barely  tolerable  in  a 
youth  of  twenty.  I  have  seldom  listened  to  Veal  so  out- 
rageous. You  see  he  had  not  worked  through  it  in  his 
youtii ;  and  so  here  it  was  now.  I  have  witnessed  the 
like  phenomenon  in  a  man  wiio  went  into  the  Church  at 
five-and-forty.  I  heard  him  preach  one  of  his  earli- 
est sermons,  and  I  have  hardly  ever  heard  such  boyish 
rodomontade.  The  imaginations  of  some  men  last  out 
in  liveliness  longer  than  those  of  others ;  and  the  taste 
of  some  men  never  becomes  perfect  ;  and  it  is  no  doubt 
owing  to  these  things  that  you  find  some  men  producing 
Veal  so  much  later  in  life  than  otiiers.  You  will  liiid 
men  who  are  very  turgid  and  magniloquent  at  five-and- 
thirty,  at  forty,  at  fifty.  I'ut  I  attribute  the  phenome- 
non in  no  small  measure  to  the  fact  that  such  men  had 
not  the  opportunity  of  blowing  off  their  steam  in  youth. 
Give  a  man  at  four-and-twxMity  two  sermons  to  write  a 
week,  and  he  will  very  soon  woik  through  his  Veal. 
It  is  probably  because  ladies  write  com|)aratively  so  little, 
that  you  find  them  writing  at  fifty  poetry  and  prose  of 
the   mo.-t  awfully   romantic  and   sentimental  strain. 

^r^  have  been  thinking,  my  fiieiid,  as  you  have  doubt 
less  o!)served,  almost  exclusively  of  intellectual  and 
aesthetical  immaturity,  and  of  its  products  in  composition, 
spoken  or  written.  But  combining  with  that  immaturity, 
and  going  very  much  to  affect  the  character  of  that  Veal, 
there  is  moral  immaturity,  resulting  in  views,  feelings, 
and   conduct,   which    may   be   described   as   Moral  Veal. 


CONCERNING   V"EAL.  41 

But  indeed  it  is  very  difficult  to  distinguish  between  the 
different  kinds  of  immaturity ;  and  to  say  exactly  what 
in  the  moods  and  doings  of  youth  proceeds  from  each. 
It  is  safest  to  rest  in  the  general  proposition  that,  even 
as  the  calf  yields  Veal,  so  does  the  immature  human 
mind  yield  immature  productions.  It  is  a  stage  which 
you  outgrow,  and  therefoi'e  a  stage  of  comparative  im- 
maturity, in  which  you  read  a  vast  deal  of  poetry,  and 
repeat  much  poetry  to  yourself  when  alone,  working 
yourself  up  thereby  to  an  enthusiastic  excitement.  And 
very  like  a  calf  you  look  when  some  one  suddenly  enters 
the  room  in  whicli  you  are  wildly  gesticulating  or  mood- 
ily laughing,  and  thinking  yourself  poetical  and  indeed 
sublime.  The  person  probal)ly  takes  you  for  a  fool;  and 
the  best  you  can  say  for  yourself  is  that  you  are  not  so 
great  a  fool  as  you  seem  to  be.  Vealy  is  the  period  of 
life  in  which  you  filled  a  great  volume  with  the  verses 
you  loved  ;  and  in  which  you  stored  your  memory,  by 
frequent  reading,  with  many  thousands  of  lines.  All 
tiiat  you  outgrow.  Fancy  a  man  of  fifty  having  his 
commoni)lace  book  of  ])()etry  !  And  it  will  be  instruc- 
tive to  turn  over  the  ancient  volume,  and  to  see  how  year 
by  year  the  verses  co[)ied  grew  fewer,  and  liiiully  ceased 
entirely.  I  do  not  say  that  all  growth  is  ()rogress ;  some- 
times it  is  like  that  of  the  muscle  which  once  advanced 
into  manly  vigor  and  usefulness,  but  is  now  ossifying  into 
rigidity.  It  is  well  to  have  fancy  and  feeling  under  com- 
mand :  it  is  not  well  to  have  feeling  and  fancy  dead. 
That  season  of  life  is  vealy  in  which  you  are  charmed 
by  the  melody  of  verse  quite  apart  from  its  meaning. 
And  there  is  a  season  in  which  that  is  so.  And  it  is  cu- 
rious to  remark  what  verses  they  are  that  have  charmed 
many  men.     For  they  are  often  verses  in  which  no  one 


42  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

else  coultl  have  discerned  tliat  singular  fascination.  You 
may  i-enieniber  how  Ilobert  Burns  has  recorded  tliat  in 
youtli  he  was  enchanted  by  the  melody  of  two  lines  of 
Addison's :  — 

For  though  in  dreadful  wliirls  we  hung, 
Higli  on  the  brolcen  wave. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  felt  the  like  fascination  in  youth  (and 
he   tells   us   it   was  not   entirely  gone    even   in  age),  in 

Mickle'ri  stanza  :  — 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall; 

The  moon,  sweet  rejrent  of  the  sky. 
Silvered  tlie  wails  of  Cumnor  Hall, 

And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby. 

Not  a  remarkable  verse,  I  think.  However,  it  at  least 
presents  a  pleasant  picture.  But  I  remember  well  the 
enchantment  which,  when  twelve  years  old,  I  felt  in  a 
verse  by  Mrs.  Hemans,  which  T  can  now  see  presents  an 
excessively  disagreeable  picture.  I  saw  it  not  then  ;  and 
when  I  used  to  repeat  that  verse,  I  know  it  was  without 
the  slightest  perception  of  its  meaning.  You  know  the 
beautiful  poem  called  the  Battle  of  3Iorgarten.  At  least 
I  remember  it  as  beautiful ;  and  I  am  not  going  to  spoil 
my  recollection  by  reading  it  now.    Here  is  the  verse  :  — 

Oh  !  the  sun  in  heaven  fierce  havoc  viewed, 

When  the  Austrian  turned  to  fly: 
And  the  brave,  in  tlie  trampling  multitude. 

Had  a  fearful  death  to  die ! 

As  I  write  that  verse  (at  which  the  critical  reader  will 
Bmile),  I  am  aware  that  Veal  has  its  hold  of  me  yet.  I 
pee  nothing  of  the  miserable  .scene  the  poet  describes ; 
but  1  hear  the  waves  murmuring  on  a  distant  beach, 
and  I  see  the  hills  across  the  sea,  the  first  sea  I  ever 
beheld  ;  I  see  the  school  to  which  I  went  daily  ;  I  see 


CONCERNING  VEAL.  43 

ihe  class-room  ami  the  place  where  I  user!  to  sit  ;  I  see 
the  faces  and  hear  tlie  voices  of  my  old  companions, 
some  dead,  one  sleeping  in  the  middle  of  the  great  At- 
lantic, many  scattered  over  distant  parts  of  the  world, 
almost  all  far  away.  Yes,  I  feel  that  I  have  not  quite 
cast  off  the  witchery  of  the  Battle  of  Morgarten.  Early 
associations  can  give  to  verse  a  ciuirm  and  a  hold  uj)on 
one's  heart  which  no  literary  excellence,  iiowever  high, 
ever  could.  Look  at  the  first  hymns  you  learned  to 
repeat,  and  which  you  used  to  say  at  your  mother's 
knee ;  look  at  the  psalms  and  hymns  you  remember 
hearing  sung  at  church  when  you  were  a  child:  you 
know  how  impossible  it  is  for  you  to  estimate  these  upon 
their  literary  merits.  They  may  be  almost  doggrel  ;  but 
not  Mr.  Tennyson  can  touch  you  like  them  !  The  most 
effective  eloquence  is  that  which  is  mainly  done  by  the 
mind  to  which  it  is  addressed :  it  is  that  which  touches 
chords  which  of  tiieraselves  yield  matchless  music;  it  is 
that  which  wakens  up  trains  of  old  remembrance,  and 
which  wafts  around  you  the  fragrance  of  the  hawthorn 
that  blossomed  and  witheiX'd  many  long  years  since.  An 
English  stranger  would  not  think  much  of  the  hymns  we 
sing  in  our  Scotch  churches  :  he  could  not  know  what 
many  of  them  are  to  us.  Tliere  is  a  magic  about  the 
words.  I  can  discern,  indeed,  that  some  of  them  arc 
mawkish  in  sentiment,  faulty  in  rhyme,  and  on  the  whole 
what  you  would  call  extremely  unfitted  to  be  sung  in 
public  worship,  if  you  were  judging  of  tliem  as  new 
things  :  but  a  crowd  of  associations  which  are  beautiful 
and  touching  gathers  round  the  lines  whicii  have  no  great 
beauty  or  patlios  in  themselves. 

You  were  in  an  extremely  vealy  condition  when,  having 
attained  the  age  of  fourteen,  you  sent  some  verses  to  the 


14  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

county  newspaper,  and  with  simple-hearted  elation  read 
them  ill  the  cornel'  devoted  to  what  was  termed  "Oi'i^inal 
Poetry."  It  is  a  pity  you  did  not  pre>erve  the  newspapers 
in  which  you  tirst  saw  yourself  in  print,  and  experienced 
the  peculiar  sensation  which  accompanies  tliat  si<;ht.  No 
doubt  your  verses  expressed  tlie  gloomiest  vi(;ws  of  life, 
and  told  of  the  bitter  disappointments  you  had  met  in 
your  long  intercourse  with  mankind,  and  especially  with 
womankind.  And  though  you  were  in  a  flutter  of  anx- 
iety and  excitement  to  see  whether  or  not  your  verses 
would  be  pi'inted,  your  verses  probably  declared  that  you 
had  used  up  life  and  seen  tlirougii  it;  that  your  heart  was 
no  longer  to  be  stirred  by  aught  on  earth  ;  and  that,  in 
short,  you  cared  notliing  tor  anything.  You  coidd  see 
nothing  tine,  then,  in  being  good,  cheerful,  and  liappy  ; 
but  you  thought  it  a  grand  thing  to  be  a  gloomy  man,  of 
a  very  dark  complexion,  witli  blood  on  your  conscience, 
upwards  of  six  feet  high,  and  accustomed  to  wander 
from  land  to  land,  like  Childe  Harold.  You  were  ex- 
tremely vealy  wlieii  you  used  to  fancy  tiiat  you  were 
sure  to  be  a  very  great  man  ;  and  to  tliink  how  proud 
your  relations  would  some  day  be  of  you.  and  how  you 
would  come  back  and  excite  a  great  commotion  at  the 
place  where  you  used  lo  be  a  .-ciioolboy.  And  it  is  be- 
cause the  woiid  lia^  .-till  Ictt  some  imiires.-ionable  spot  in 
your  hearts,  my  readers,  ihat  you  slill  have  so  many  Ibnd 
associations  witii  "  the  .--cliooiboy  spot,  we  ne'er  forget, 
though  we  are  tlieie  forgot."  They  were  vealy  days, 
though  pleasant  to  remember,  my  old  school  companions, 
in  which  you  used  to  go  to  the  dancing-school  fit  was  in 
a  gloomy  theatre,  seldom  entered  i)y  actors),  in  which 
you  fell  in  love  with  several  young  ladies  about  eleven 
yrars   <'ld  ;   aid    (being   ijcrmiited   occasionally  to  select 


CONCERNING  YEAL.  45 

your  own  partners)  made  frantic  rushes  to  obtain  the 
hand  of  one  of  the  beauties  of  that  small  society.  Those 
wi^re  tlie  days  in  which  you  thought  tliat  when  you  grew 
up  it  would  he  a  very  fine  thing  to  be  a  pirate,  bandit,  or 
corsair,  ratlier  than  a  clergyman,  barrister,  or  the  like  ; 
even  a  cheerful  outlaw  like  Hobin  Hood  did  not  come  up 
to  your  views  ;  you  would  rather  have  been  a  man  like 
Captain  Kyd.  stained  witli  various  crimes  of  extreme 
atrocity,  whieli  would  e?itirely  preclude  the  possibility 
of  returning  to  respectable  society,  and  given  to  moody 
laughter  in  solitary  moments.  Oh,  what  truly  asinine 
developments  tlu;  human  being  must  go  through  before 
arriving  at  tlie  stage  of  common  s<Mise  !  You  were  very 
vealy,  too,  when  you  used  to  think  it  a  fine  thing  to  as- 
tonish peo])le  \)\  expressing  awful  sentiments,  such  as  that 
you  thought  Malioinme(hurs  better  than  Christians,  that 
you  would  like  to  be  dissected  after  death,  that  you  did 
not  care  what  30U  got  for  diimer,  that  you  liked  learning 
your  lessons  better  than  going  out  to  play,  that  you  would 
i-atber  read  Eiudid  than  Jraiihoe,  and  the  like.  Jt  may 
be  remarked  that  this  peculiar  vealiness  is  not  confined 
to  youth  ;  I  have  seen  it  appearing  very  strongly  in 
men  witii  gray  hair.  Anoiher  manifestation  of  veali- 
ness, which  ap[)eurs  both  in  age  and  youth,  is  the  en- 
tertaining a  strong  belief  that  kings,  noblemen,  and 
baronets,  are  always  in  a  condition  of  ecstatic  hapiii- 
ness.  I  have  known  peoi)Ie  pietly  far  advanced  in  life, 
who  not  only  belii'ved  that  Inonarcbs  must  be  perfectly 
hap|>y,  but  that  all  wlio  were  permitted  to  continue  in 
their  presence  would  catch  a  considerable  degree  of 
the  mysterious  blis-;  whieli  was  their  portion.  I  have 
heard  a  sane  man,  rather  acute  and  clever  in  many 
things,  seriimsly  say,   "  If  a  man    cannot   be   happy  iu 


46  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

die   presence   of   his   Sovereign,  where  can   he  be  hap- 
py ?  " 

And  yet.  absurd  and  foolish  as  is  moral  vealiness,  there 
is  something  fine  about  it.  Many  of  the  old  and  dear  as- 
sociations most  cherished  in  human  hearts,  are  of  tlie 
nature  of  Veal.  It  is  sad  to  think  that  most  of  the 
romance  of  lil'e  is  unquestionably  so.  All  spooniness,  all 
the  preposterous  idolization  of  some  one  who  is  just  like 
anybody  else,  all  love  (in  the  nairow  sense  in  which  the 
word  is  understood  by  novel  leaders),  you  feel  when  you 
look  back,  are  Veal.  The  young  lad  and  the  young  girl, 
whom  at  a  pic-nic  party  you  have  discerned  stealing  off 
under  frivolous  ])retexts  from  the  main  body  of  guests, 
and  sitting  on  the  grass  by  the  riverside,  enraptured  in 
the  prosecution  of  a  conversation  which  is  intellectually 
of  the  emptiest,  and  fancying  that  they  two  make  all  the 
Avorld,  and  investing  that  spot  with  remembrances  which 
will  continue  till  they  are  gray,  are  (it  must  in  sober 
sadness  be  admitted)  of  the  nature  of  calves.  For  it  is 
beyond  doubt  that  they  are  at  a  stage  which  they  will 
outgrow,  and  on  which  they  may  possibly  look  back  with 
something  of  shame.  All  these  things,  beautiful  as  they 
are,  are  no  more  than  Veal.  Yet  they  are  fitting  and  ex- 
cellent in  their  time.  No,  let  us  not  call  them  V('al,  they 
are  rather  like  lamb,  which  is  excellent  though  immature. 
No  doubt,  youth  is  immaturity  ;  and  as  you  outgrow  it 
you  are  growing  better  and  wiser  ;  still  youth  is  a  fine 
thing,  and  most  people  would  be  young  again  if  they 
could.  How  cheerful  and  light-hearted  is  immaturity! 
How  cheerful  and  lively  arc  the  little  children  even  of  si- 
lent and  gloomy  men  !  It  is  sad,  and  it  is  unnatural,  when 
they  are  not  so.  I  remember  yet,  when  I  was  at  school, 
with  what  interest  and  wonder  I  used  to  look  at  two  oi* 


CONCERNING  VEAL.  47 

three  boys,  about  twelve  or  thirteen  years  old,  who  were 
always  dull,  sullen,  and  unhappy-lookinjr.  In  those  days, 
as  a  general  rule,  you  are  never  sorrowful  witliout  know- 
ing the  reason  why.  You  are  never  conscious  of  tlie 
dull  atmosphere,  of  the  gloomy  spirits,  of  after-time.  Tlie 
youthful  machine,  bodily  and  mental,  plays  smoothly  ;  the 
young  being  is  cheery.  Even  a  kitten  is  very  dlllcrcnt 
from  a  grave  old  cat ;  and  a  young  colt,  from  a  horse 
sobered  by  the  cares  and  toils  of  years.  And  you  pic- 
ture fine  things  to  yourself  in  your  youthful  dreams.  I 
remember  a  beautiful  dwelling  I  used  often  to  see,  as  if 
from  the  brow  of  a  great  hiih  I  see  the  rich  valley  be- 
low, with  magnific(,'nt  woods  and  glades,  and  a  broad 
river  reflecting  the  sunset ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  valley, 
the  vast  Saracenic  pile,  with  gilded  minarets  blazing  in 
the  golden  light.  I  have  .^ince  then  seen  many  splendid 
habitations,  but  none  in  the  least  equal  to  tli;it.  I  can- 
not even  yet  discard  the  idea  tliat  somewhere  in  this 
world  there  stands  that  noble  palace,  and  that  some  day 
I  shall  find  it  out.  You  remember  also  the  intense  de- 
light with  which  you  read  the  books  that  charmed  you 
then  :  how  you  carried  off  the  poem  or  the  tale  to  some 
solitary  place,  how  you  sat  up  far  into  the  night  to  read 
it,  how  heartily  you  believed  in  all  the  story,  and  sympa- 
thized with  the  peoide  it  told  of.  I  wish  I  could  feel  now 
the  veneration  for  the  man  who  has  written  a  book  wiiich 
I  u-ed  once  to  feel.  Oh  that  one  could  read  the  old  vol- 
umes with  the  old  feeling!  Perhaps  you  have  some  of 
them  yet,  and  you  remember  the  peculiar  expression  of 
the  type  in  which  they  were  printed:  the  pages  look  at 
you  with  the  face  of  an  oM  friend.  If  you  were  then  of 
an  observant  nature,  yon  will  understand  how  much  of 
the  effect  of  any  ;omposilion  upon  the  human  mind  de- 


48  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

pends  upon  tlie  printinfr,  upon  the  placing  of  the  points, 
even  upon  the  ]>osition  of  the  sentences  on  tlie  p«ge.  A 
grand,  liigli-Hown,  and  sentimental  climax  ought  always 
to  conclude  at  the  bottom  of  a  page.  It  will  look  ridicu- 
lous if  it  ends  four  or  five  lines  down  from  tin!  top  of  the 
next  page.  Somehow  there  is  a  feeling  as  of  the  dilli'r- 
ence  between  the  night  before  and  the  ne.xt  morning. 
It  is  as  though  tlie  cru>h('(l  ball-dress  and  the  dishevelled 
locks  of  the  close  of  the  evening  rc-nppeared,  the  same, 
before  breakfast.  Let  us  have  lioinely  sense  at  the  top 
of  the  page,  pathos  at  the  foot  of  it.  What  a  force  in  the 
bad  type  of  the  shabby  little  Childe  Harold  you  used  to 
read  so  often  !  You  turn  it  over  in  a  grand  illustrated 
edition,  and  it  seems  like  another  poem.  Let  it  here  be 
said,  that  occasionally  you  look  with  something  like  in- 
dignation on  tlie  volume  which  enchained  you  in  your 
boyi>h  days.  For  now  you  have  bur.-t  the  chain.  And 
you  have  somewhat  of  the  feeling  of  the  prisoner  towards 
tlie  jailer  wlio  held  him  in  unjust  bondage.  What  right 
had  that  bombastic  rubbish  to  touch  and  thrill  you  as  it 
used  to  do?  Well,  remember  that  it  suits  successive 
generations  at  their  enthusiastic  stage.  There  are  poets 
whose  great  admirers  are  for  the  most  part  under  twenty 
years  oM  ;  but  probably  almost  every  clever  young  per- 
son regards  them  at  some  jieriod  in  his  life  as  among  the 
noblest  of  mortals.  And  it  is  no  ignoble  ambition  to 
win  the  ardent  appreciation  of  even  imniature  tastes  and 
hearts.  Its  brief  endurance  is  compensated  by  its  inten- 
sity. You  sit  by  the  fireside  and  read  your  leisurely 
Times,  and  you  feel  a  tranquil  enjoyment.  You  like  it 
better  than  the  Sorrows  of  Werter,  but  you  do  not  like  it 
a  twentieth  part  as  much  as  you  once  liked  the  Sorrows 
xtf  Werter.     You  would  be  interested  in  meeting  the  man 


CONCERNING  VEAL.  49 

who  wrote  tliat  brilliant  and  sla-hing  leader;  but  you 
would  not  regard  liim  with  speechless  awe,  as  something 
more  than  human.  Yet,  remembering  all  the  weaknesses 
out  of  which  men  grow,  and  on  which  they  look  back 
with  a  smile  or  sigh,  who  does  not  feel  that  there  is  a 
charm  which  will  not  depart  about  early  youth?  Long- 
fellow knew  that  he  would  reach  the  hearts  of  most  men 
when  he  wrote  such  a  verse  as  this  :  — 

The  green  trees  wliisperecl  low  and  mild ; 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy ! 
They  were  ni^'  jilayniates  when  a  child, 
And  reeked  nie  in  their  arms  so  wild; 
Still  they  looked  at  itic  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boj- ! 

Such  readers  as  are  young  men,  wmU  understand  what 
has  already  been  said  as  to  the  bitter  indignation  with 
which  the  writer,  some  years  ago,  listened  to  self-con- 
ceited elderl}-^  persons  who  put  aside  the  arguments  and 
the  doings  of  younger  men  with  the  rem;irk  that  these 
younger  men  were  hoys.  There  are  lew  terms  of  re- 
])roach  which  I  have  heard  uttered  with  looks  of  such 
deadly  ferocity.  And  there  are  not  many  which  excite 
feelings  of  greater  wratli  in  llie  souls  of  clever  young 
men.  I  remember  how  in  those  days  I  determined  to 
write  an  essay,  which  should  scorch  up  and  finally  de- 
stroy all  these  carping  and  malicious  critics.  It  was  to 
be  called  A  Chapter  on  Boys.  After  an  introduction  of 
a  sarcastic  and  magnificent  character,  setting  out  views 
substantially  the  same  as  those  contained  in  the  speech  of 
Lord  Cliatham  in  reply  to  Walpole,  which  boys  are  taught 
to  recite  at  school,  that  essay  was  to  go  on  to  show  that 
a  great  part  of  English  literature  was  wriiten  by  very 
young  men.  Unfortunately,  on  proceeding  to  inveotigate 
4 


50  COXCERNING  VEAL. 

the  matter  carefully,  it  appeared  that  the  best  part  of 
Kii!Zli>li  literature,  even  in  the  ran;:e  of  poetry,  wa*  in 
fact  written  by  men  of  even  more  tlinn  middle  age.  So 
the  essay  was  never  finished,  tliou^ii  a  good  deal  of  it 
was  sketched  out.  Yesterday  I  took  out  the  old  manu- 
script ;  and  after  reading  a  bit  of  it,  it  appeared  so  re- 
markably vealy,  that  I  put  it  with  indignation  into  the 
lire.  Still  I  observed  various  facts  of  interest  as  to  great 
things  done  by  young  men,  and  some  by  young  men 
who  never  lived  to  be  old.  Beaumont  the  dramatist  died 
at  twenty-nine.  Christopher  Marlowe  wrote  Faustus  at 
twenty-live,  and  died  at  tiiirty.  Sir  Philii)  Sidney  wrote 
his  Arcadia  at  twenty-six.  Otway  wrote  The  Orphan 
at  tweiily-ciirlit,  and  Venice  Preserved  at  thii'ty.  Tlioni- 
son  wrote  tlie  Seasons  at  twenty-seven.  Bishop  Berke- 
ley had  devised  his  Ideal  System  at  twenty-nine  ;  and 
Clarke  at  the  same  age  published  his  great  work  on  the 
Beinrj  and  AUribul.es  of  God.  I'hen  there  is  Pitt,  of 
course.  But  these  cases  are  exceptional ;  and  besides, 
men  at  twenty-eigiit  and  thirty  are  not  in  any  way  to  be 
regarded  as  boys.  What  I  wanted  was  f)roof  of  the 
great  things  that  had  i)een  done  by  young  fellows  about 
two-and-twenty  ;  and  such  proof  was  not  to  be  found.  A 
man  is  simply  a  boy  grown  up  to  his  best ;  and  of  course 
what  is  done  by  men  must  be  better  than  what  is  done 
by  boys.  Unless  in  \e.vy  peculiar  cases,  a  man  at  thirty 
will  be  every  way  superior  to  what  he  was  at  twenty; 
and  at  forty  to  what  he  was  at  thirty.  Not  indeed  phys 
i(  ally  ;  let  that  be  granted.  Not  always  morally ;  but 
surely  intellectually  and  aesthetically. 

Yes,  my  readers,  we  have  all  bi?en   Calves.     A  great 
part  of  all  our  doings  has  been  what  the  writer,  in  figu* 


CONCERNING  VEAL.  51 

rative  language,  has  de.-cribed  as  Veal.  We  have  not 
said,  written,  or  done  very  much  on  wliieh  we  can  now  look 
back  with  entire  approval.  And  we  have  said,  written, 
and  done  a  very  great  deal  on  which  we  cannot  look 
back  but  with  burning  shame  and  confusion.  Very  many 
things  whicii,  when  we  did  them,  we  thought  rt-markably 
good,  and  mucli  better  tlian  the  doings  of  ordinary  men, 
we  now  discern,  on  calmly  looi<ing  back,  to  have  been 
extremely  bad.  That  time,  you  know,  my  friend,  when 
you  talked  in  a  very  fluent  and  animated  manner  after 
dinner  at  a  certain  house,  and  thought  you  were  making 
a  great  impression  on  the  assembled  guests,  most  of  them 
entire  strarigers  ;  you  are  now  fully  aware  that  you  were 
only  making  a  fool  of  yourself.  And  let  this  hint  of  one 
public  manifestation  of  vealiness,  suffice  to  suggest  to 
each  of  us  scores  of  similar  cases.  But  though  we 
feel,  in  our  secret  souls,  what  calves  we  have  been, 
and  though  it  is  widl  for  us  that  we  should  feel  it 
deeply,  and  thus  learn  humility  and  caution,  we  do  not 
like  to  be  reminded  of  it  by  anybody  el-e.  Some  peo- 
ple have  a  wonderful  memory  for  the  vealy  sayings  and 
doings  of  their  friends.  They  may  be  very  bad  hands 
at  remembering  anytiiing  else  ;  but  they  never  forget  the 
silly  speeches  and  actions  on  which  one  would  like  to 
shut  down  the  leaf.  You  may  find  people,  a  great  part 
of  whose  conversation  consists  of  repeating  and  exagger- 
ating their  neighbor's  Veal ;  and  though  that  Veal  may 
be  immature  enough  and  silly  enougii,  it  will  go  hard 
but  3'our  friend  Mr.  Snarling  will  represent  it  as  a  good 
deal  worse  than  the  fact.  You  will  find  men  who  while 
at  college  were  students  of  large  ambition  but  slender 
nbilities,  revenging  themselves  in  this  fashion  upon  the 
clever  men  who  beat   thera.     It  is  easy,  very  easy,  to 


52  CONCERNING  YT.\1.. 

remember  foolish  things  that  were  paid  and  done  even 
by  the  senior  wranirler  or  the  man  who  takes  a  double 
first-class  ;  and  candid  folk  will  tiiiiik  thiit  sm-li  foolish 
tilings  were  not  fair  samples  of  tiie  men;  and  will  remem- 
ber, too,  that  the  men  havc^  grown  ont  of  these,  have 
grown  mature  and  wise,  and  for  ninnv  a  year  pa-t  would 
not  have  said  or  done  such  tilings.  But  if  you  were  to 
judge  from  tlie  conversation  of  Mr.  Limejuice  (who 
wrote  many  prize  essays,  l)ut  through  the  malice  and 
stupidity  of  the  judges  never  got  any  prizes),  you  would 
conclude  that  every  word  uttered  by  his  successful  rivals 
was  one  that  stamped  them  as  essential  fo(d-;,  and  calves 
which  would  never  grow  into  oxen.  I  do  not  think  it  is 
a  pleasing  or  magnanimous  feature  in  any  man's  charac- 
ter, that  he  is  ever  eager  to  rake  n]i  these  early  follies. 
I  would  not  be  ready  to  throw  in  the  teeth  of  a  pretty 
butterfly  that  it  was  an  ugly  caterpillar  once,  unless  I 
understood  that  the  butterfly  liked  to  remember  the  fact. 
I  would  not  suggest  to  this  fair  sheet  of  paper  on  which 
I  am  writing,  that  not  long  ago  it  was  dusty  rags  and 
afterwards  dirty  pulp.  You  cannot  be  an  ox  without 
previously  having  been  a  calf;  you  acquire  taste  and 
sense  gradually  ;  and  in  acquiring  them  you  pass  through 
stages  in  which  you  have  very  little  of  either.  It  is  a 
poor  burden  for  the  memory,  to  collect  and  shovel  into  it 
tiie  silly  sayings  and  doings  in  youth  of  people  who  have 
become  great  and  eminent.  I  read  with  much  disgust  a 
biography  of  Mr.  Disraeli,  which  recorded,  no  doubt  ac- 
curately, all  the  sore  {)oints  in  that  statesman's  history. 
I  remember,  with  great  approval,  what  Lord  John  Man- 
ners said  in  Parliament  in  reply  to  Mr.  Bright,  who  had 
quoted  a  well-knojvn  and  very  silly  passage  from  Lord 
John's  early  poetry.     "I  would  rather,"  said  Lord  John 


CONCERNING  VEAL.  .   53 

"  liave  been  the  man  who  in  his  youtli  wrote  those  silly 
verses,  than  the  man  who  in  mature  years  would  rake 
them  up."  And  with  even  greater  indignation  I  regard 
the  individual  who,  when  a  man  Is  doing  creditably  and 
Christiaidy  the  work  of  lite,  is  ever  ready  to  relate  and 
anrgravate  the  moral  delinquencies  of  his  schoolboy  and 
student  days,  long  since  repented  of  and  corrected. 
"  Remember  not,"  said  a  man  who  knew  human  na- 
ture well,  "the  sins  of  my  youth."  But  there  are  men 
whose  nature  has  a  peculiar  affinity  for  anything  petty, 
mean,  and  bad.  They  fly  uj)on  it  as  a  vulture  on  car- 
rion. Their  memory  is  of  that  cast,  that  you  have  only 
to  make  inquiry  of  them  concerning  any  of  their  friends, 
to  hear  of  something  not  at  all  to  the  friends'  advantage. 
There  are  individuals,  after  listening  to  whom  you  think 
it  would  be  a  refreshing  novelty,  almost  startling  from 
its  strangeness,  to  hear  them  say  a  word  in  favor  of  any 
human  being  whatsoever. 

It  is  not  a  thing  peculiar  to  immaturity;  yet  it  may 
be  remarked,  that  though  it  is  an  unpleasant  thing  to 
look  back  and  see  that  you  have  said  or  done  something 
very  foolish,  it  is  a  still  more  unpleasant  thing  to  be  well 
aware  at  the  time  that  you  are  saying  or  doing  something 
very  foolish.  If  a  man  be  a  fool  at  all,  it  is  much  to  be 
desired  that  he  should  be  a  very  great  fool,  for  then  he 
will  not  know  when  he  is  making  a  fool  of  himself.  But 
it  is  painful  not  to  have  sense  enough  to  know  what  you 
should  do  in  order  to  be  right,  but  to  have  seiise  enough 
to  know  that  you  are  doing  wrong.  To  know  that  you 
ire  talking  like  an  ass,  yet  to  feel  th:it  you  cannot  help 
it ;  that  you  must  say  something,  and  can  think  of  noth- 
ing better  to  say  ;  this  is  a  suffering  that  comes  with  ad- 
vanced  civilization.     This  is  a  phenomenon  frequently  to 


54   .  CONCERNING  VEAL 

be  seen  at  public,  dinners  in  countrj'  towns,  also  at  tho 
entertainment  wliich  succeeds  a  wedding.  Men  at  other 
times  rational,  seem  to  be  stricken  into  idiocy  when  tiiey 
rise  to  iheir  feet  on  such  occasions  ;  and  the  painful  fact 
is,  that  it  is  conscious  idiocy.  The  man's  words  are  asi- 
nine, and  he  knows  they  are  asinine;.  His  wits  have 
entirely  abandoned  him:  he  is  an  idiot  for  the  time. 
Have  you  sat  next  a  man  unused  to  speaking  at  a  pub- 
lie  dinner  ;  have  you  seen  him  nervously  rise  and  utter 
an  incoherent,  ungrammatical,  and  unintelligible  sentence 
or  two,  and  then  sit  down  with  a  ghastly  smile?  Ilavo 
you  heard  him  say  to  his  friend  on  the  other  side,  in  bit- 
terness, "I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself!"  And  have 
you  seen  him  sit  moodily  tinougli  the  remainder  of  the 
feast,  evidently  ruminating  on  wliat  he  said,  seeing  now 
what  he  ought  to  have;  said,  and  trying  to  persuade  him- 
self that  what  lu;  said  was  not  so  bad  after  all?  Would 
you  do  a  kindness  to  that  miserable  man  ?  You  have 
just  heard  his  friend  on  the  olhei-  side  cordially  agreeing 
will)  what  he  had  said  as  to  the  badness  of  the  appear- 
ance made  by  him.  Enter  into  conversation  with  him  ; 
talk  of  his  speech,  congratulate  him  upon  it ;  tell  him 
you  were  extremely  struck  by  the  (nishness  and  natural- 
ness of  what  he  said,  that  there  is  something  delightfid 
in  hearing  an  unhackneyed  speaker,  that  to  speak  with 
entire  fluency  looks  professional  —  it  is  like  a  barrister  or 
a  clergyman.  Tlius  you  may  lighten  the  mortification 
of  a  disa[)point<'d  man  ;  and  what  you  say  will  receive 
considerable  ci'edence.  It  is  wonderful  how  readily  peo- 
ple belie\e  any  tiling  they  would  like  to  be  true. 

I  was  walking   (his  afternoon   along  a  certain  street, 
coming  home  from  visiting  certain  sick  persons,  and  won- 


CONCEKNING  VEAL.  5» 

dcring  how  I  should  conrlude  this  essay,  when,  standing 
on  the  pavement  on  one  side  of  the  street,  I  saw  a  little 
boy  of  four  years  old,  crying  in  gieat  distress.  Various 
individuals,  who  appeared  to  be  Priests  and  Levites, 
looked  as  they  passed  at  the  child's  distress,  and  passed 
on  without  doing  anything  to  relieve  it.  I  spoke  to  the 
little  man,  who  was  in  great  fear  at  being  spoken  to,  but 
toitl  me  he  had  come  away  from  his  home  and  lost  him- 
self, and  could  not  find  his  way  back.  I  told  liim  I  would 
take  him  home  if  he  could  tell  me  where  he  lived  :  but 
he  was  frightened  into  ulter  helplessness,  and  could  only 
tell  that  his  name  was  Tom,  and  that  he  lived  at  the  top 
of  a  stair.  It  was  a  y)Oor  neighborhood,  in  which  many 
))Cople  live  at  the  lop  of  stairs,  and  the  description  was 
vague.  I  spoke  to  two  humble,  decent-looking  women 
who  were  passing,  thinking  they  might  gain  the  little 
thing's  confidence  better  than  me  ;  but  the  poor  little 
man's  great  wish  was  just  to  get  away  from  us,  though 
when  he  got  two  yards  off  he  could  but  stand  and  cry. 
You  may  be  sure  he  was  not  left  in  his  trouble,  but  that 
he  was  put  safely  in  his  father's  hands.  And  as  I  was 
coming  home,  I  thought  that  here  was  an  illustration  of 
something  I  have  been  thinking  of  all  this  afternoon.  I 
thought  I  saw  in  the  poor  little  child's  desire  to  get  awav 
from  those  who  wanted  to  help  him,  though  not  knowing 
where  to  go  when  left  to  himself,  something  analogous  to 
M'hat  rhe  immature  human  being  i~  always  disposed  to. 
The  whole  teaching  of  our  life  is  leading  us  away  from 
our  early  delusions  and  follies,  from  all  those  thinga 
about  us  whifh  have  been  spoken  of  under  lh(;  similitude 
which  need  not  be  again  repeated.  Yet  we  push  away 
the  hand  that  would  conduct  us  to  sobeier  and  better 
tilings,  though    when   left    alone   we    can    but    stand    and 


56  CONCERNING  VEAL. 

vaguely  gaze  about  us ;  and  we  speak  hardly  of  the 
growing  exf)erieMce  wliioli  make*  us  wiser,  and  wliich 
ought  to  make  us  happier  too.  Let  us  not  forget  that 
the  teaching  which  takes  something  of  tiie  gloss  from 
life  is  an  instrument  in  the  kindest  Hand  of  all  ;  and  let 
us  be  humbly  eont(;nt  if  tliat  kindest  Hand  shall  lead  us, 
even  I)y  rough  means,  to  calm  and  enduring  wisdom  — 
wisdom  by  no  means  inconsistent  with  youthful  freshness 
f  feeling,  and  not  necessarily  fatal  even  to  youthful 
gaiety  of  mood;  —  and  at  last  to  that  Ilajipy  Place, 
where  worn  men  regain  the  little  child's  heart,  and  old 
and  young  are  blest  together! 


CHAPTER   III. 


CONCERNING  THINGS   SLOWLY   LEARNT. 


^OU  will  see  in  u  little  while  what  sort  of 
\^  things  they  are  which  I  understand  hy 
:°^  Tidngs  Slotvly  Learnt.  Some  are  facts, 
■^^5^  some  are  moral  truths,  some  are  practical 
lessons  ;  but  the  great  characteristic  of  all  those  which 
are  to  be  thouLrht  of  in  this  essay,  is,  that  we  have 
to  leai'n  tln-m  and  act  upon  them  in  the  face  of  a 
strong  bias  to  think  or  act  in  an  opposite  way.  It  is 
not  that  they  are  so  difficult  in  themselves  ;  not  that  they 
are  hard  to  be  understood,  or  that  they  are  supported  by 
arguments  whose  force  is  not  apparent  to  every  mind. 
On  the  contrary,  the  things  which  I  have  especially  in 
view^  are  very  simple,  and  for  the  most  part  quite  un- 
questionable. But  the  dilhculty  of  learning  them  lies  in 
this  :  that,  as  regards  them,  the  head  seems  to  say  one 
thing  and  the  heart  another.  We  see  plainly  enough 
Avhat  we  ouglit  to  think  or  to  do  ;  but  we  feel  an  irre- 
sistible inclination  to  tiiink  or  to  do  soinetliing  else.  It 
is  about  three  or  ibur  of  these  things  that  we  are  going, 
my  friend,  to  have  a  little  quiet  talk.  We  are  going  to 
confnie  our  view  to  a  single  class,  though  po-sil»ly  the 
most  important  class,  in  the  innumerable  multitude  of 
Things  Slowly  Learnt. 

The  truth  is,  a  great  many  things  are  slowly  learnt 


58  CONCERNING 

I  have  lately  had  occasion  to  observe  that  the  alphabet 
is  one  of  these.  J  remember,  too,  in  my  own  soirowful 
experience,  how  the  Multiplication  Table  was  another. 
A  good  many  years  since,  an  eminent  dancinfj-master 
undertook  to  teacli  a  number  of  my  schoolboy  compan- 
ions a  s'^^^fl'd  and  easy  deportment ;  but  comparatively 
few  of  us  can  be  said  as  yet  to  have  tlioronjrhly  attained 
it.  I  know  men  who  have  been  p)-actisiiig  the  art  of  ex- 
li.'mpore  speakin;]^  for  many  years,  but  who  have  reached 
no  |)erfection  in  it,  and  who,  if  one  may  judge  from  their 
confusion  and  hesitation  when  they  attempt  to  speak,  ai'C 
not  likely  ever  to  reach  even  decent  mediocrity  in  that 
wonderful  accom|)lishment.  Analogous  statements  might 
be  made  with  truth,  with  regard  to  my  friend  Mi-.  Snarl- 
ing's  endeavors  to  produce  magazine  articles  ;  likewise 
concerning  his  attciinpts  to  skate,  and  his  eflbrts  lo  ride 
on  horseback  unlike  a  tailor.  Some  folk  learn  with  re- 
markable slowness  that  nature  never  intended  them  (or 
wits.  Tliere  have  been  men  who  have  punned,  ever 
more  and  moni  wretchedly,  to  tlie  end  of  a  long  and 
highly  respectable  life.  People  submitted  in  silence  to 
the  infliction  ;  no  one  liked  to  inform  those  reputable  in- 
dividuals that  they  had  better  cease  to  make  fools  of 
themselves.  This,  however,  is  part  of  a  larger  subject, 
which  shall  be  treated  hereafter.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  are  things  which  are  very  quickly  learnt;  which 
are  learnt  by  a  single  lesson.  One  liiieral  tij),  or  even  a 
few  kind  words  heartily  said,  to  a  manly  little  schoolboy, 
will  establish  in  his  mind  the  rooted  principle  that  the 
speaker  of  the  words  or  the  bestower  of  the  tip  is  a  jolly 
and  noble  specimen  of  humankind.  Hoys  are  great 
physiognomists  :  they  i-ead  a  man's  nature  at  a  glance. 
Well  I  remember  how,  when  going  to  and  from  school,  a 


THINGS   SLOWLY   LEARNT.  59 

Ions  journey  of  four  hundred  miles,  in  days  when  sucli 
a  joni-ney  implied  travel  by  sea  as  well  as  by  land,  I 
used  to  know  instantly  the  gentlemen  or  the  railway 
officials  to  whom  I  might  apply  for  advice  or  informa- 
tion. I  think  that  this  intuitive  perception  of  character 
is  blunted  in  after  years.  A  man  is  often  mistaken  in 
his  first  impression  of  man  or  woman  ;  a  boy  hardly 
ever.  And  a  bov  not  only  knows  at  once  whetiier  a 
luinian  being  is  amiable  or  the  reverse  ;  he  knows  also 
whether  the  human  Ix-ing  is  wise  or  foolish.  In  particu- 
lar, he  knows  at  once  wh<;ther  the  human  being  always 
means  what  he  says,  or  says  a  great  deal  more  than  he 
means.  Inferior  animals  learn  some  lessons  quickly.  A 
do'o"  nee  thrashed  for  some  offence,  knows  (|uite  well  not 
u  ^repeat  it.  A  horse  turns  for  the  first  time  down  the 
avenue  to  a  house  where  he  is  well  fed  and  cared  for; 
next  week,  or  next  month,  you  pass  that  gate,  and  though 
the  horse  has  been' long  taught  to  submit  his  will  to 
yours,  you  can  easily  see  that  he  knows  the  placf;  again, 
and  that  he  would  like  to  go  back  to  the  stable  witli 
which,  in  his  ])oor,  dull,  narrow  mind,  there  are  pleasant 
associations.  I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  know  what 
a  horse  is  thinking  about.  There  is  something  very 
curious  and  very  touching  about  the  limited  intelligence 
and  the  imperfect  knowledge  of  that  immaterial  ])rin- 
cii)le,  in  which  the  immaterial  does  not  im))ly  the  im- 
mortal. And  yet,  if  we  are  to  rest  the  doctrine  of  a 
future  life  in  any  degree  upon  tiie  necessity  of  compen- 
sation of  the  sulfeiings  and  injustice  of  a  present,  I  think 
;he  sight  of  the  cab  horses  of  any  large  town  might  plead 
for  the  admission  of  some  quiet  world  of  green  grass  and 
shady  trees,  where  there  should  be  no  cold,  starvation, 
over-work,  or  Hogging.     Some  one  has  said  that  the  most 


60  CONCERNING 

exquisite  material  scenery  would  look  very  cold  and  deac^ 
in  the  entire  absence  of  ii'ralional  life.  Trees  sujrj^c-st 
singing-birds  ;  flowers  and  sunshine  make  us  think  of 
the  drowsy  bees.  And  it  is  curious  to  tiiink  how  the 
future  woilds  of  various  creeds  are  described  as  not  with- 
out their  lowly  ]io])uhition  of  animals  inferior  to  man. 
We  know  what  the  "  poor  Indian  ''  expects  shall  bear 
him  company  in  his  humble  heaven  ;  and  j)ossibly  various 
readers  may  know  some  dogs  who  in  certain  important 
respects  are  very  superior  to  certain  men.  You  remem- 
ber how,  when  a  war-chief  of  the  Western  woods  was 
laid  by  his  trilje  in  his  grave,  his  horse  was  led  to  the 
spot  in  the  funt'ral  procession,  and  at  the  instant  when 
the  earth  was  cast  upon  the  dead  warrior's  dust,  an  ar- 
row reached  the  noble  creature's  heart,  that  in  the  I7MI 
of  souls  the  man  should  find  his  old  friend  again.  And 
though  it  has  something  of  the  grotesque,  I  think  it  has 
more  of  the  pathetic,  the  aged  huntsman  of  ]\Ir.  Asshe- 
ton  Smith  desiring  to  be  buried  by  his  master,  with  two 
horses  and  a  few  couples  of  dogs,  that  they  might  all  be 
ready  to  start  together  when  they  meet  again  far  away. 

This  is  a  deviation  ;  but  t/tat  is  of  no  consequence.  It 
is  of  the  essence  of  the  present  writer's  essays  to  deviate 
from  the  track.  Only  Ave  mu.-t  not  forget  the  thread  of 
the  difcourse;  and  after  our  deviation  W'e  must  go  back 
to  it.  All  this  came  of  our  remarking  that  some  things 
are  verv  quickly  learnt;  and  that  ceitain  infei'ior  classes 
of  our  f(ll()W-ci-eatures  learn  them  quickly.  But  deeper 
and  larger  lessons  are  early  leai'ut.  Thoughtful  children 
of  a  very  few  years  old,  have  their  own  theory  of  human 
)iature.  Before  studying  the  metaphysicians,  and  indeed 
while  still  imperfectly  acquainted  with  their  letters,  young 
children    have  glimpses  of  the  inherent   selfishness   of 


THINGS   SLOWLY  LEARNT.  61 

liumanity.  I  was  rfcpntly  present  when  a  small  boy  of 
three  years  old,  top;ether  witli  his  si>ter,  aged  five,  was 
brought  down  to  the  dining-ioom  at  tlie  period  of  dessert. 
Tiie  small  boy  climljcd  upon  his  mother's  knee,  and  be- 
gan by  various  indications  to  display  his  affection  for  her. 
A  stranger  remarked  what  an  affectionate  child  he  waa. 
'•'Oh."  said  the  little  girl,  "he  suspects  (by  which  she 
meant  expectx)  that  he  is  going  to  get  something  to  eat!" 
xS'ot  Ilohbes  himself  had  reached  a  clearer  perception  or 
a  firmer  belief  of  the  selHsh  system  in  moi'al  philosophy. 
''  lie  is  always  very  affectionate,"  the  j'outlifnl  j)hilosopher 
proceeded,  "  wlicn  he  suspects  he  is  going  to  get  something 
good  to  eat ! " 

By  Things  Slowly  Learnt^  I  mean  not  merely  things 
which  are  in  their  nature  such  that  it  takes  a  long  time 
to  learn  them  ;  such  as  the  Greek  language,  or  the  law 
of  vendors  and  purchasers.  These  things  indeed  take 
long  time  and  much  trouble  to  learn  ;  but  once  you  have 
learnt  them,  you  know  them.  Once  you  have  come  to 
understand  the  force  of  the  second  aorist,  you  do  not  find 
your  heart  whispering  to  you  as  you  are  lying  awake  at 
niglit,  that  what  the  grammar  says  about  the  second  aorist 
is  all  nonsense  ;  you  do  not  feel  an  inveterate  disposition, 
gaining  (bi'ce  day  by  day,  to  thiidi  concerning  the  second 
aorist  just  the  of)posite  of  what  the  grammar  says.  ]>y 
Things  Slo%vhj  Learnt^  I  understand  things  which  it  is 
very  hard  to  learn  at  the  first,  because  strong  as  the  rea- 
^ons  which  support  them  are,  you  find  it  so  hard  to  make 
up  your  mind  to  them.  1  understand  things  which  you 
can  quite  easily  (when  it  is  fairly  put  to  you)  see  to  be 
true;  but  which  it  seems  as  if  it  would  change  the  very 
A'orld  you  live  in  to  accept.     I   understand  things  you 


62  CONCERNING 

discern  to  be  true,  but  which  you  Iiave  all  your  life  been 
accu;>tomed  to  think  false ;  and  which  you  are  extremely 
anxious  to  think  false.  And  by  Things  Slowly  Learnt  I 
understand  things  which  are  not  merely  veiy  hard  lo 
learn  at  the  first ;  but  which  it  is  not  enough  to  learn  for 
once,  ever  so  well.  1  understand  things  which,  wdien 
you  have  made  the  bitter  etlbrt,  and  admitted  them  to  be 
true  and  certain,  you  put  into  your  mind  to  keep  (so  lo 
speak)  ;  and  hardly  a  day  has  passed  when  a  soft  quiet 
hand  seems  to  begin  to  crumble  tliem  down  and  to  wear 
them  away  to  nothing.  You  write  the  principle  which 
was  so  hard  to  receive,  upon  the  tablet  of  your  memoiy; 
and  day  by  day  a  gentle  hand  comes  over  it  with  a  bit  of 
india-rubber,  till  the  inscription  loses  its  clear  sharpness, 
grows  blurred  and  indistinct,  and  finally  quite  disappears. 
Nor  is  the  gentle  hand  content  even  then;  but  it  begins, 
very  faintly  at  first,  to  trace  letters  wliicii  bear  a  very 
diderent  meaning.  Then  it  deepens  and  darkens  them 
dav  by  day,  week  by  week,  till  at  a  month's  or  a  year's 
end  the  taltlet  of  memory  bears  in  great,  ^Iiai-p,  legible 
letters,  just  the  opposite  thing  to  that  which  you  had 
originally  written  down  there.  These  are  my  Things 
Slowly  Learnt.  Things  you  learn  at  first  in  the  face  of 
a  strong  bias  against  them  ;  things  wdien  once  taught  you 
gradually  forget,  till  you  come  back  again  to  your  old 
way  of  thiiddiig.  Such  things,  of  course,  lie  within  the 
realm  to  which  extends  the  influence  of  feeling  and  pre- 
judice. TJK'y  are  tilings  in  the  accepting  of  wliicii  both 
head  and  heart  are  concerned.  Once  convince  a  man 
that  two  and  two  make  four,  and  he  learns  the  truth  with- 
out excitement,  and  he  never  doubts  it  again.  But  prove 
to  a  man  that  he  is  of  niucli  less  importance  than  he  has 
been  accustomed  to  think  ;  or  prove  to  a  woman  that  her 


THINGS   SLOWLY  LEARNT  63 

/•'nildren  are  very  much  like  tliose  of  other  folk  ;  or  prove 
lo  (he  inhabitant  of  a  country  parish  that  Britain  has 
hundreds  of  jiarishes  which  in  soil,  and  climate,  and  pro- 
ductions, ate  just  as  good  as  his  own;  or  prove  to  the 
^reat  man  of  a  little  country  town  that  there  are  scores 
of  towns  in  this  world  where  ihe  walks  are  as  pleasant, 
the  streets  as  well  paved,  and  the  population  as  hcallhy 
and  as  well  conducted  ;  and  in  each  such  case  you  will 
find  it  very  hard  to  convince  the  individual  at  the 
lime,  and  you  will  find  that  in  a  very  short  space 
♦he  individual  has  succeeded  in  entirely  escaping  from 
the  disagreeable  conviction.  You  may  possibly  find, 
\f  you  endeavor  to  instil  such  belief  into  minds  of 
but  moderate  cultivation,  that  your  arguments  will  be 
met  less  by  force  of  reason  than  by  roaring  of  voice 
and  excitement  of  manner;  you  may  find  that  the  per- 
son you  address  will  endeavor  to  change  the  issue  you 
are  arguing,  to  other  issues,  wholly  irrelevant,  touch- 
ing your  own  antecedents,  character,  or  even  personal 
ajipearance ;  and  you  may  afterwards  be  informed  by 
good-natured  friends,  that  tlu;  upshot  of  your  discussion 
had  been  to  leave  on  liie  mind  of  vcur  ac([naintance  the 
firm  conviction  that  you  yourself  are  intellectually  a 
blockhead,  and  morally  a  villain.  And  even  when  deal- 
ing with  liuman  beings  who  have  reached  that  crowning 
result  of  a  fine  training,  that  they  shall  have  got  beyond 
Ihinking  a  man  their  "  enemy  because  he  tells  them  tho 
ruth,"  you  may  find  that  you  have  rendered  a  servico 
like  that  rendered  by  the  surgeon's  amputating  knife  — 
salutary,  yet  very  painful  —  and  leaving  forever  a  sad 
association  with  your  thought  and  your  name.  For 
among  the  things  we  slowly  learn,  are  truths  and  lessons 
which  it  goes  terribly  against  the  grain   to  learu  at  first 


64  CONCERNING 

which  mu?t  be  driven  into  us  time  after  time ;  and  which 
perhaps  are  iiever  learnt  conipietely. 

One  thing  very  slowly  learnt  by  most  human  beings,  is, 
that  they  are  of  no  earliily  conseipience  beyond  a  very 
small  circle  indeed  ;  and   that  really  nobody  is  thinking 
or   talking   about   them.     Almost  all  connnonplace  men 
and  women  in  this  world  have  a  vague  but  deeply-rooted 
belief  that  thi^y  are  quite  different  from  anybody  else, 
and  of  course  quite  sui)erior  to  evei'ybody  else.     It  may 
be  in  only  one  respect  they  fancy  they  are  this,  but  that 
one  respect  is  quite  sufficient.     I  believe  that  if  a  grocer 
or  silk-mercer  in  a  little  town  has  a  hundred  customers, 
each   separate   customer   lives  on    under   the  impression 
that  the  grocer  or  the  silk-mercer  is  pre()ared  to  give  to 
him  or  her  certain  advantages  in  buying  and  selling  which 
will  not  be  accorded  to  tiie  otiier  ninety-nine  customers. 
"  Say  it  is  lor  ilrs.  Brown,"  is  Mrs.  Brown's  direction 
to  her  servant  when  sending  for  some  sugar ;  "  say  it  is 
for  Mrs.  Bi'own,  and  he  will  give  it  a  little  better."     The 
grocer,  keenly  alive  to  the  weaknesses  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, encourages  this  notion.    "This  tea,"  he  says,  "would 
be  four-and-sixpence  a  pound  to  any  one  else,  but  to  you 
it  is  only  four-and-threcpence."     Judging  from  my  own 
observation,  I  ,-hould  say  that  retail  dealers  trade  a  good 
deal  upon  this  singular  fact  in  the  constitution  of  the  hu- 
man mind,  that  it  is  inexpres>ibly  bitter  to  most  ])eoplc 
to  believe   that   liiey  stand  on   the  ordinary  level  of  hu- 
manity ;  that,  in  the  main,  they  are  ju>t  like  their  neigh- 
bors.    Mrs.  Brown  would  be  tilled  with  unutterable  wralh 
d   it  were  represented  to  her  that  the  grocer  treats  her 
oreeisely  as  he  does  Mrs.  Smith,  who  lives  on  one  side 
of  her,  and  Mrs.  Snooks,  who  lives  on  the  other.     She 


THINGS   SLOWLY   LKARXT.  65 

would  be  still  more  anjiry  if  you  asked  her  what  earthly 
reason   there  is  why  she  should    in   any  way  ne  distin- 
gnished    bej'ond    Mrs.    Snooks    and    Mrs.    Smith.      She 
takes  for  granted  she  is  quite  different  from  them  :  quite 
superior   to   them.      Human    beings  do  not    like   to  be 
classed,  at  least  with  the  class  to  which  in  fact  they  be- 
long.    To  be   classed   at  all    is    painful   to   an    average 
mortal,  who  firmly  believes  that  there  never  was  such 
a  being  in  this  world.     I  remember  one  of  the  cleverest 
friends  1  have  —  one  who  assuredly  cannot  be  classed  in- 
tellectually, except  in  a  very  small  and  elevated  class  — 
telling  me  how  mortified  he  was,  when  a  very  clever  boy 
of  sixteen,  at  being  classed  at  all.     He  had  told  a  literary 
lady  that  he  admired  Tennyson,     "  Yes,"  said  the  lady, 
"  1  am  not  surprised  at  that :  there  is  a  class  of  young 
men  who  like  Tennyson  at  your  age."     It  went  like  a 
dart  to  my  friend's  heart.      Class  of  young  men,  indeed  ! 
Was  it  for  this  that  I  outstiipped  all  competitors  at  school, 
that  I  have  been  fancying  myself  an  unique  phenomenon 
in  nature,  different  at  least  from  every  other  being  that 
lives,  that  I  should  be  spoken  of  as  one  of  a  class  of 
young  men!     Now,  in  my  friend's  half-[)layful  reminis- 
cence, I  see  the  exemplification  of  a  great  fact  in  humiin 
nature.     Most  human  beings  fancy  tiieniselves,  and  all 
their  belongings,  to  be  quite  different  from  all  other  1)6- 
ings,  and  the  belongings  of  all  other  beings.     I  heard  an 
old  lady,  whose  son  is  a  rifleman,  and  just  like  all  the 
Other  volunteers  of  his  corps,  lately  declare  that  on  the 
occasion  of  a  certain  grand   Review  her  Tom  looked  so 
entirely  different  from  all  the  rest.     No  doubt  he  did   to 
her,  poor  old  lady,  for  he  was  her  own.     But  the  irri- 
tating thing  was,  that  tiie  old  lady  wished  it  to  be  ad- 
mitted that  Tom's  superiority  was  an  actual  fact,  equally 
5 


66  CONCERNING 

patent  to  the  oyes  of  all  mankind.  Yes,  my  friend  :  it  is 
a  thing  veiy  slowly  learnt  by  most  men,  tiiat  tiiey  are 
very  much  like  other  people.  You  see  the  principle 
which  underlies  what  you  iiear  so  often  said  by  human 
beings,  young  and  old,  when  urging  you  to  do  something 
wiiifh  it  is  agains^t  your  general  rule  to  do.  "Oil,  but 
you  might  do  it  for  me  !  "  Why  for  you  more  than  foi 
any  one  else,  would  be  the  answer  of  severe  logic.  Bu 
a  kindly  man  would  not  take  that  ground  :  for  doubtles. 
the  il/e,  however  little  to  every  one  else,  is  to  each  unit 
in  human-kind  the  centre  of  all  the  world. 

Arising  out  of  this  mistaken  notion  of  their  own  dif- 
ference from  all  otlier  men,  is  the  fancy  entertained  by 
many,  that  tliey  occupy  a  much  greater  space  in  the 
thoughts  of  otliers  than  they  really  do.  Most  folk  think 
mainly  about  themselves  and  their  own  affairs.  Even  a 
matter  which  "  everybody  is  talking  about,"  is  really 
talked  about  by  each  for  a  very  small  portion  of  the 
twenty-four  hours.  And  a  name  which  is  "  in  every- 
body's mouth,"  is  not  in  each  separate  mouth  for  more 
than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time.  And  during  those  few 
minutes,  it  is  talked  of  with  an  interest  very  faint  when 
compared  with  that  you  feel  for  yourself.  Yon  fancy  it 
a  terrible  thing  when  you  yourself  have  to  do  something 
which  you  would  think  nothing  about  if  done  by  any- 
l)ody  else.  A  lady  grows  sick,  and  has  to  go  out  of 
chin-ch  (luri?)g  the  sermon.  Well,  you  remark  it  ;  pos- 
sibly indeed  you  don't  ;  and  you  say,  Mrs.  Thomson 
went  out  of  church  to-day  ;  she  must  be  ill ;  and  there 
the  matter  ends.  But  a  day  or  two  later  you  see  Mrs. 
Thomson,  and  find  her  quite  in  a  fever  at  the  awful  fact- 
It  was  a  dreadful  trial,  walking  out,  and  facing  all  the 
congregation  :  they  must  have  thought  it  so  strange ;  slie 


THINGS   SLOWLY   LEARNT.  G7 

would  not  iiiii  tlie  risk  of  it  again  for  any  inducement. 
The  fact  is  ju.st  this  :  Mrs.  Thompson  thinks  a  great  deal 
of  the  thing,  because  it  happened  to  herself.  It  did  not 
liappen  to  the  other  people,  and  so  they  hardly  think  of 
it  at  all.  But  nine  in  every  ten  of  them,  in  Mrs.  Thom- 
son's place,  would  have  Mrs.  Thomson's  feeling  ;  for  it  is 
a  thing  which  you,  my  reader,  slowly  learn,  that  people 
think  very  liitle  about  you. 

Yes,  it  is  a  thing  slowly  learnt:  by  many  not  learnt  at 
all.  How  many  persons  yf)u  meet  walking  along  the 
street  who  evidently  think  that  everybody  is  looking  at 
them !  How  few  persons  can  walk  through  an  exhibi- 
tion of  pictures  at  which  are  assembled  the  grand  people 
of  the  town  and  all  their  own  grand  acquaintances,  in  a 
fashion  thoroughly  free  from  self-consciousness!  I  mean 
without  thinking  of  themselves  at  all,  or  of  how  they 
look  ;  but  in  an  unaffected  manner,  observing  the  objects 
and  beings  around  them.  Men  who  have  attained  re- 
cently to  a  moderate  eminence,  are  sometimes,  if  of  small 
minds,  nuich  affected  by  this  disagreeable  frailty.  Small 
literary  men,  and  preachers  with  no  great  head  or  heart, 
have  within  my  own  observation  suffered  from  it  severely. 
I  have  witnessed  a  poet,  whose  writings  I  have  never 
read,  walking  along  a  certain  street.  I  call  him  a  i)oet 
to  avoid  periphrasis.  The  whole  get-up  of  the  man,  his 
dress,  his  hair,  his  hat.  the  style  in  wiiicii  he  walked, 
showed  uimiislakably  that  he  fancied  that  everybody  was 
looking  at  him,  and  that  he  was  the  admired  of  all  ad- 
mirers. In  fact,  nobody  was  looking  at  him  at  all.  Some 
time  since  I  beheld  a  j-ortiait  of  a  very,  very  small  liter- 
ary man.  It  wa-^  easy  to  discern  from  it  that  the  small 
author  lives  in  the  belief  that  wlu-rever  he  goes  he  is  the 
jbject  of  universal  observation.     The   intense   self-con- 


68  CONCERNING 

PCioii>:ne:*?:  and  self-conceit  apparent  in  tliat  portrait  were, 
in  the  words  of  JNIr.  Sqneers,  *'more  easier  conceived 
than  descrihed."  Tiie  face  was  a  very  commonplace  and 
rather  good-looking  one :  the  author,  notwithstanding  his 
most  strenuous  exertions,  evidently  could  make  nothing 
of  the  features  to  distinguish  him  from  other  men.  But 
the  length  of  his  hair  was  very  great  ;  and  oh,  what 
genius  he  plainly  fancied  glowed  in  those  eyes !  I  never 
in  my  life  witnessed  such  an  extraordinary  glare.  I  do 
not  believe  that  any  human  being  ever  lived  whose  eyes 
habitually  wore  that  expression:  only  by  a  violent  etibrt 
could  the  expression  be  produced ;  and  then  for  a  very 
short  time,  without  serious  injury  to  the  optic  nerves. 
The  eyes  were  made  as  large  as  possible  ;  and  the  thing 
after  which  the  iK)or  fellow  had  been  struggling  was  that 
peculiar  look  whicii  may  be  conc(^ived  to  penetrate  through 
the  beholder,  and  pierce  ids  inmost  thoughts.  I  never 
beheld  the  living  original,  but  if  I  saw  him  I  should  like 
in  a  kind  way  to  pat  him  on  the  head,  and  tell  him  that 
that  sort  of  expression  would  produce  a  great  effect  on 
the  gallery  ol'  a  n)inor  theatre.  The  other  day  I  was  at 
a  public  meeting.  A  great  crowd  of  peojjle  was  assem- 
bled in  a  large  hall  :  the  {)latform  at  one  end  of  it  re- 
mained unoccupied  till  the  moment  when  the  business  of 
the  meeting  was  to  begin.  It  was  an  interesting  sight 
for  any  philosophic  observer  seated  in  the  body  of  the 
hall  to  look  at  the  men  who  by  and  by  walked  in  proces- 
sion on  to  the  platform,  and  to  observe  the  different  ways 
in  which  they  walked  in.  There  were  several  very  great 
and  distinguished  men  :  every  one  of  these  walked  on  to 
the  platform  and  took  his  seat  in  the  most  simple  and 
unaffected  way,  as  if  quite  unconscious  of  the  many  eyes 
that    were   looking   at  them   with  interest  and  curiosity. 


THINGS   SLOWLY  LEAKNT.  69 

There  were  many  highly  respectable  and  gensible  men, 
whom  nobody  cared  f)ailicularly  to  see,  and  who  took 
their  places  in  a  perfectly  natural  manner,  as  though  well 
aware  of  the  fact.  But  there  were  one  or  two  small  men, 
stiuggliiig  for  notoriety  ;  and  I  declare  it  was  pitiful  to 
behold  their  entrance.  I  vemaiked  one  in  particular, 
who  evidently  thought  that  the  eyes  of  the  whole  meet- 
ing were  fixed  upon  himself;  and  that  as  he  walked  in 
everybody  was  turning  to  his  neighbor,  and  saying  with 
agitation,  "See,  that's  Snooks!"  His  whole  gait  and 
deportment  testified  that  he  felt  tliat  two  or  three  thou- 
sand eyes  were  burning  him  up:  you  saw  it  in  the  way 
he  walked  to  his  place,  in  the  way  he  sat  down,  in  the 
way  he  then  looked  about  him.  If  any  one  had  tried  to 
get  up  three  cheers  for  Snooks,  Snooks  would  not  have 
known  that  he  was  being  made  a  fool  of.  He  would 
have  accepted  the  incense  of  fame  as  justly  his  due. 
There  once  was  a  man  who  entered  the  Edinburgh  thea- 
tre at  the  same  instant  with  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  au- 
dience clieered  lustily  ;  and  while  Sir  Walter  modestly 
took  his  seat,  as  though  unaware  that  those  cheers  were 
to  welcome  the  Great  Magician,  the  oiher  man  advanced 
with  dignity  to  the  front  of  the  box,  and  bowed  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  popular  applause.  This  of  course 
was  but  a  little  outburst  of  the  great  tide  of  vain  self-esti- 
mation which  the  man  had  cherished  witiiin  his  breast 
for  years.  Let  it  be  said  here,  that  an  affected  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  presence  of  a  multitude  of  people  is  as 
oflensive  an  exhibition  of  self-consciousness  as  any  that  is 
possible.  Entire  naturalness,  and  a  just  sense  of  a  man's 
personal  insignificance,  will  produce  the  right  deportment. 
It  is  very  irritating  to  see  some  clergymen  walk  into 
church  to  begin  the  service.     They  come  in,  with  eyes 


70  CONCERNING 

aflVctf^dh-^  cast  down,  and  go  to  tlicir  place  without  ever 
looking  up,  and  rise  and  brgin  wiihout  one  glance  at  the 
congregation.  To  stari-  about  them  as  some  clergymen 
do,  in  a  free  and  easy  manner,  befits  not  the  solemnity  of 
the  place  and  the  worship;  but  the  other  is  the  worse 
thing.  In  a  few  cases  it  proceeds  from  modesty:  in  the 
majority  from  intolerabk;  self-conceit.  The  man  who 
kee[)s  his  eyes  downcast  in  that  affected  manner  fancies 
that  everybody  is  looking  at  him.  There  is  an  insuffer- 
able self-consciousness  about  him ;  and  he  is  much  more 
keenly  aware  of  the  presence,  of  other  people  than  the 
man  who  does  what  is  natural,  and  looks  at  the  people 
to  whom  he  is  speaking.  It  is  not  natural  nor  rational 
to  speak  to  one  human  being  wilii  your  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground;  and  neither  is  it  natui'al  or  ralional  to  speak  to 
a  thousand.  And  I  think  thai  the  preaclier  who  feels  in 
his  iieart  that  he  is  neither  wiser  nor  better  than  his 
fellow-sinners  to  whom  he  is  to  preach,  and  that  the 
advices  he  addresses  to  them  are  addressed  quite  as 
solemnly  to  himself,  will  assume  no  conceited  airs  of  ele- 
vation above  them,  but  will  unconsciously  wear  the  de- 
meanor of  any  sincere  wor.-hipper,  somewhat  deepened 
in  solemnity  by  tlie  remembrance  of  his  heavy  ])ersonal 
responsibility  in  leading  the  congregation's  worship;  but 
assuredly  and  entiicly  free  from  the  vidgar  conceit  which 
may  be  fostered  in  a  vulgar  mind  by  tiie  reflection,  "Now 
everybody  is  looking  at  me!"  I  have  seen,  I  regret 
to  say,  various  distinguished  preachers  whose  pulpit  de- 
meanor was  made  to  me  inexpressibly  offensive  by  this 
taint  of  self-consciousness.  And  I  have  seen  some,  with 
half  the  talent,  who  made  upon  me  an  impression  a 
thousand-fold  deeper  than  ever  was  made  by  the  most 
brilliant  eloquence ;   because  the  simple  earnestness  of 


THINGS   SLOWLY  LEARNT.  71 

their  manner  said  to  every  heart,  "  Now,  I  am  not  think- 
ing ill  the  least  about  myself,  or  about  what  you  may 
think  of  me  :  ray  sole  desire  is  to  impress  on  your  hearts 
these  truths  I  speak,  which  I  believe  will  concern  us  all 
forever!"  I  have  heard  great  preachers,  after  hearing 
whom  you  could  walk  home  quite  at  your  ease,  praising 
warmly  the  eloquence  and  ihe  logic  of  the  sermon.  I 
have  heard  others  (infinitely  greater  in  my  poor  judg- 
ment), after  hearing  whom  you  would  have  felt  it  profan- 
ation to  criticize  the  fiterary  merits  of  their  sermon,  high 
as  those  were  :  but  you  walked  home  tiiinking  of  the  les- 
son and  not  of  the  teacher  ;  solemnly  revolving  the  truths 
you  had  hoard ;  and  asking  the  best  of  all  help  to  ena- 
ble you  to  remember  them  and  act  upon  them. 

There  are  various  ways  in  which  self-consciousness 
disagreeably  evinces  its  existence;  and  there  is  not  one 
perhaps  more  disagreeable  than  the  aflfected  avoidance 
of  what  is  generally  regarded  as  egotism.  Depend  upon 
it,  my  reader,  that  the  straightforward  and  natural  writer 
who  frankly  uses  the  first  person  singular,  and  says,  "  I 
think  thus  and  thus,"  "  1  have  seen  so  and  so,"  is  thinking 
of  himself  and  his  own  personality  a  mighty  deal  less 
than  tlie  man  who  is  always  em[)loying  awkward  and 
roundabout  foi'ms  of  expression  to  avoid  the  use  of  the 
obnoxious  /.  Every  sucii  periphrasis  testifies  unmistak- 
ably tliat  the  man  was  thinking  of  himself;  but  the  sim- 
ple, natural  writer,  warm  with  his  pubj(;ct,  eager  to  press 
his  views  upon  his  readers,  uses  the  1  witiiout  a  tliought 
of  self,  just  because  it  is  the  shortest,  mo-;t  direct,  and 
most  natural  way  of  expressing  himself.  The  recollec- 
tion of  his  own  personality  probably  never  once  crossed 
his  mind  during  the  composition  of  tiie  paragrapli  from 
which  an  ill-set  critic  miglit  pick  out  a  score  of  J's.     To 


72  CONCERNING 

say  "It  is  submitted"  iiistoad  of  "I  think,"  "It  has  been 
ob-erved  "  instead  of"  I  have  .-ecn,"  ''  ihe  present  writer" 
instead  of  "  I,"'  is  much  the  more  really  egotistical.  Try 
to  write  an  essay  without  using  that  vowel  which  some 
men  think  the  very  shibboleth  of  egotism,  and  the  re- 
jnembrance  of  yourself  will  be  in  the  background  of  your 
iiind  all  the  time  you  are  writing.  It  will  be  always  in- 
truding and  pushing  in  its  iace,  and  you  will  be  able  to 
give  only  half  your  mind  to  your  subject.  But  frankly  and 
uaturally  use  the  "  1,"  and  the  remtmbrance  of  yourself 
vanishes.  You  are  grappling  with  the  subject ;  you  are 
thinking  of  it  and  of  nothing  else.  You  use  the  readiest 
and  most  unaOected  mode  of  speech  to  set  out  your 
thoughts  of  it.  You  have  written  1  a  dozen  times,  but 
you  have  not  thought  of  yourself  once. 

You  may  see  the  self-consciousness  of  some  men 
strongly  manifested  in  their  handwriting.  The  hand- 
writing of  some  men  is  essentially  affected ;  more  es- 
pecially their  signature.  It  seems  to  be  a  very  search- 
ing test  whether  a  man  is  a  conceited  person  or  an  un- 
affected person,  to  be  required  to  furnish  his  autograph  to 
be  printed  underneath  his  published  portrait.  I  have 
fancied  I  could  form  a  theory  of  a  man's  whole  character 
from  reading,  in  such  a  situation,  merely  the  words 
"  Very  faithfully  yours,  Eusebius  Snooks."  You  could 
see  that  Mr.  Snooks  was  acting  when  he  wrote  that  sig- 
nature. He  was  thinking  of  the  impression  it  would 
produce  on  those  who  saw  it.  It  was  not  the  thing 
which  a  man  would  produce  who  simply  wished  to  write 
his  name  legibly  in  as  short  a  time  and  with  as  little 
needless  trouble  as  possible.  Let  me  say  with  sorrow 
that  I  have  known  even  venerable  bishops  who  were  not 
superior  to  this  irritating  weakness.     Some  men  aim  at 


THINGS   SLOWLY  LEAKNT.  73 

an  aristocratic  hand ;  some  deal  in  vulgar  flourishes. 
These  are  the  men  who  have  readied  no  farther  than 
that  stage  at  which  they  are  proud  of  tlie  dexterity  with 
which  they  handle  tlif ir  pen.  Some  strive  after  an  af- 
fectedly simple  and  student-like  hand  ;  some  at  a  dasliing 
and  military  style.  But  there  may  be  as  much  self-con- 
sciousness evinced  by  handwriting  as  by  anything  else. 
Any  clergyman  who  performs  a  good  many  marriages 
will  be  impressed  by  the  fact  that  very  few  among  the 
humbler  classes  can  sign  their  name  in  an  unaffected 
way.  I  am  not  thinking  of  tlie  poor  bride  wlio  sliakily 
traces  her  name,  or  of  the  simple  bumpkin  wlio  slowly 
writes  his,  making  no  secret  of  the  dilRculty  with  which 
he  does  it.  Tliese  are  natural  and  pleasing.  You  would 
like  to  help  and  encourage  them.  But  it  is  irritating 
when  some  forward  fellow,  after  evincing  his  marked 
contempt  for  the  !^low  and  cramped  performances  of  his 
friends,  jauntily  takes  up  the  pen  and  dashes  off  his  sig- 
nature at  a  tremendous  rate  and  with  the  air  of  an  ex- 
ploit, evidently  expecting  the  admiration  of  his  rustic 
friends,  and  laying  a  foundation  for  remarking  to  thera 
on  his  way  home  tliat  the  parson  could  not  touch  him 
at  penmanship.  I  have  observed  with  a  little  malicious 
satisfaction  that  such  persons,  ai'ising  in  tlieir  pride  from 
tlie  place  where  they  wrote,  generally  smear  their  signa- 
ture with  their  coat-sleeve,  and  reduce  it  to  a  state  of 
comparative  illegibility.  I  like  to  see  the  smirking,  im- 
pudent creature  a  little  taken  down. 

But  it  is  endless  to  try  to  reckon  up  the  fashions  iu 
which  people  show  that  they  have  not  learnt  the  lesson 
of  their  own  unimportanee.  Did  you  ever  stop  in  the 
street  and  talk  for  a  few  minutes  to  some  old  baclielor  ? 
li'so,  I  dare  say  you  have  remarked  a  curious  phenome- 


74  CONCERNING 

non.  You  have  found  that  all  of  a  sudden  the  mind  of 
the  old  gentleman,  usually  rea'^onable  enough,  appeared 
stricken  into  a  state  approaching  idiocy,  and  that  tiie 
sentence  wliich  he  had  begun  in  a  rational  and  intelli- 
gible wa}'  was  ending  in  a  niazt;  of  wandering  words, 
signifying  nolliing  in  particular.  You  had  been  looking 
in  anotlun*  direction,  but  in  sudden  alarm  you  look 
Btraiglit  at  tiie  old  gentleman  to  see  what  on  eartii  is 
the  matter;  and  yon  discern  that  his  ej'es  are  fixed  on 
some  passer-by,  possibly  a  )'oung  lady,  perhaps  no  more 
than  a  magistrate  or  the  like,  who  is  by  this  time  a  good 
many  yards  off,  with  the  eyes  still  following,  and  slowly 
revolving  on  their  axis  so  as  to  follow  without  the  head 
being  turned  round.  It  is  tliis  spectacle  wliich  has  drawn 
off  your  fri(!nd's  attention  ;  and  you  notice  his  whole 
figure  twisted  into  an  ungainly  form,  intended  to  be  dig- 
nified or  easy,  and  assumed  !)ecause  he  fancied  that  the 
passer-by  was  looking  at  him.  Oh  the  pettiness  of  hu- 
man nature!  Tiien  you  will  find  peo])le  afraid  that  they 
liave  given  ofience  by  saying  or  doing  things  which  tiie 
party  they  supi)ose  offended  had  really  never  observed 
that  they  had  said  or  done.  There  are  people  who  fancy 
that  in  cluirch  evei-ybody  is  looking  at  them,  when  in 
truth  no  mortal  is  taking  the  trouble  to  do  so.  It  is  an 
amusing  though  irritating  sight  to  behold  a  weak-minded 
lady  walking  into  churcli  and  taking  her  seat  under  this 
delusion.  You  remember  tin;  ;ilfe<'ted  air,  the  downcast 
eyes,  tiie  demeanor  intended  to  imply  a  modest  shrinking 
from  notice,  but  through  wliicli  there  shines  the  real  de- 
Fire,  "  Oil,  for  any  sake,  look  at  nie  !  "  Tiiere  are  people 
whose  voice  is  utterly  inaudible  in  cliurch  six  feet  off, 
who  will  tell  you  that  a  whole  congregation  of  a  thousand 
ur  fifteen  hundred  people  was  listening  to  tlieir  singing 


THINGS   SLOWLY   LEARXT,  75 

Such  folk  will  tell  you  that  they  went  to  a  church  where 
the  singing  was  left  too  much  to  the  choir,  and  begnn  to 
sing  as  usual,  on  wliich  the  entire  congregation  looked 
round  to  see  who  it  was  that  was  singing,  and  uUimatel}' 
])roceeded  to  sing  lustily  too.  I  do  not  remember  a  more 
disgusting  exhibition  of  vulgar  self-conceit  than  I  saw  a 
lew  months  ago  at  Westminster  Abbey.  It  was  a  week- 
day afternoon  service,  and  the  congregation  was  small. 
Immediately  before  me  there  sat  an  insolent  boor,  who 
evidently  did  not  belong  to  the  Church  of  England.  He 
had  walked  in  when  the  prayers  were  half  over,  having 
with  difficulty  been  made  to  take  off  his  hat,  and  his 
manifest  wish  was  to  testify  his  contempt  for  the  whole 
place  and  service.  Accordingly  he  persisted  in  sitting, 
in  a  lounging  attitude,  when  the  people  stood,  and  in 
standing  up  and  staring  about  with  an  air  of  curiosity 
while  they  knelt.  Me  was  very  anxious  to  convey  that 
he  was  not  listening  to  the  prayers  ;  but  rather  inconsist- 
ently he  now  and  then  uttered  an  audible  grunt  of  disap- 
proval. No  one  can  enjoy  the  choral  service  more  than 
I  do,  and  the  music  that  afternoon  was  very  fine  ;  but  I 
could  not  enjoy  it  or  join  in  it  as  I  wished  for  the  disgust 
I  felt  at  the  animal  before  me,  and  for  my  burning  desire 
to  see  him  turned  out  of  the  sacred  place  he  was  profan- 
ing. But  the  thing  which  chiefly  struck  me  about  the 
individual  was  not  his  vulgar  and  impudent  profanity;  it 
was  his  intolerable  self-conceit.  He  plainly  thought  that 
every  eye  under  the  noble  old  roof  was  watching  all  his 
movements.  I  could  see  that  he  would  go  home  and 
boast  of  what  he  had  done,  and  tell  his  friends  that  all 
the  clergy,  choristers,  and  congregation  Iiad  been  awe- 
Btricken  by  him,  and  that  possibly  word  had  by  this  time 
been  conveyed  to  Lambeth  or  Fulham  of  the  weakened 


76  CONCERNING 

influence  and  approaching  downfall  of  the  Churcli  of 
Kiigland.  I  knew  that  the  very  thinii  he  wislicd  wad 
that  some  one  should  rebuke  his  conduct,  otherwise  I 
should  certainly  have  told  him  either  to  behave  with 
decency  or  to  be  gone. 

I  have  sometimes  witnessed  a  curious  manifestation 
of  this  vain  sense  of  self-importance.  Did  you  ever,  my 
reader,  chance  upon  such  a  s])ectacle  as  this:  a  very  com- 
monplace man,  and  even  a  very  great  blockhead,  stand- 
ing in  a  drawing-room  where  a  large  party  of  people  is 
assembled,  with  a  grin  of  self-complacent  superiority  upon 
his  unmeaning  face  ?  I  am  sure  you  understand  the 
thing  I  mean.  I  mean  a  look  which  conveyed  that,  in 
virtue  of  some  hidden  store  of  genius  or  power,  he  could 
survey  with  a  calm,  cynical  loftiness  the  little  conversa- 
tion and  interests  of  ordinary  mortals.  You  know  the 
kind  of  interest  with  which  a  human  being  would  survey 
the  distant  approaches  to  reason  of  an  intelligent  dog,  or 
a  colony  of  ants.  I  have  seen  this  expi-(^ssion  on  the  face 
of  one  or  two  of  the  greatest  blockheads  1  ever  knew. 
I  have  seen  such  a  one  wear  it  while  clever  men  were 
carrying  on  a  conversation  in  which  he  could  not  have 
joined  to  have  saved  his  life.  Yet  you  could  see  that 
(who  can  tell  how?)  the  poor  creature  had  somehow  per- 
suaded him-:elf  that  he  occupied  a  position  from  which 
he  could  look  down  u[)on  his  fellow-men  in  general.  Or 
was  it  rather  that  the  ])()or  creature  knew  he  was  a  fool, 
and  fancied  that  thus  he  could  disguise  the  fact.''  I  dare 
say  there  was  a  mixture  of  botli  feelings. 

You  may  see  many  indications  of  vain  self-importan,;e 
in  the  fact  that  vai-ious  persons,  old  ladies  for  the  most 
part,  are  so  ready  to  give  opinions  which  are  not  wanted, 
on  matters  of  wiiich    they  are   not  competent   to  judge. 


THINGS   SLOWLY  LEARNT.  77 

Clever  young  curates  suffer  much  annoyance  from  these 
people  :  they  are  always  anxious  to  instruct  the  young 
curates  how  to  preach.  I  remember  well,  ten  years  ago, 
wlicn  I  was  a  curate  (which  in  Scotland  we  call  an  as- 
sistiinl)  myself,  what  advices  I  used  to  receive  (quite 
unsouirlit  by  me)  from  well-meaning  but  densely  stu|)id 
old  ladies.  I  did  not  think  the  advices  worth  much, 
even  then  ;  and  now,  by  longer  expei'ience,  I  can  discern 
that  they  wei-e  utterly  idiotic.  Yet  they  were  given  witii 
entire  confidence.  No  thought  ever  entered  the  head  of 
these  well-meaning  but  stupid  individuals,  that  possibly 
they  were  not  competent  to  give  advice  on  such  subjects. 
And  it  is  vexatious  to  think  that  peo|)le  so  stupid  may  do 
serious  harm  to  a  young  clergyman  by  head-shakings 
and  sly  innuendos  as  to  his  orthodoxy  or  his  gravity  of 
deportment.  In  the  long  run  they  will  do  no  harm,  but 
at  the  first  start  they  may  do  a  good  deal  of  mischief. 
Not  long  since,  such  a  person  complained  to  me  that  a 
talented  young  preacher  h<id  taught  unsound  doctrine. 
Slie  cited  his  words.  I  sliowed  her  that  the  words 
were  taken  verbatim  from  the  Confession  of  Faith,  which 
is  our  Scotch  Thirty-nine  Articles.  I  tliink  it  not  un- 
likely that  she  would  go  on  telling  her  tattling  story  just 
the  same.  I  remember  hearing  a  stupid  old  lady  say,  as 
thougl)  her  opinion  were  quite  decisive  of  the  question, 
that  no  clergyman  ought  to  have  so  much  as  a  thousand 
a  year  ;  for  if  he  had,  he  would  be  sure  to  neglect  his 
duty.  You  remember  what  Dr.  Johnson  said  to  a  woman 
who  expressed  some  o])inion  or  oilier  upon  a  matter  she 
did  not  understand.  "  JNIadam,"  saiil  tii<^  morali-t,  '*  be- 
fore expressing  your  opinion,  you  should  con-ider  what 
your  opinion  is  worth."  But  this  sluif't  would  have 
glanced  harmlessly  from  off  the  panoply  of  the  stupid 


78  CONCERNING 

and  self-coinpl.'icent  old  lady  of  whom  I  am  thinking. 
It  was  a  f'liiKlaincntal  axiom  with  her  that  her  oj)iii- 
ion  was  eiitirclj  infallible.  Some  people  would  feel  as 
though  the  very  world  were  eruinb'ing  away  under  their 
feet,  if  they  realized  the  fact  that  ".hey  eould  go  wrong. 

Let  it  here  be  .<aid,  that  this  vain  belief  of  their  own 
importance  which  mo-t  people  cherish,  is  not  at  all  ? 
source  of  unmixed  happiness.  It  will  work  either  way. 
When  my  friend,  Mr.  Knarling,  got  his  beautiful  poem 
printed  in  the  county  re\.spaper,  it  no  doubt  pleased  him 
to  think,  as  he  walked  along  the  street,  that  every  one 
was  pointing  him  oi'.t  as  the  eminent  literary  man  who 
was  the  pride  of  the  di.^trict ;  and  that  the  whole  town 
was  ringing  wi'h  that  magnificent  effusion.  Mr.  Ten- 
nyson, it  is  'ysV'.'w,  felt  that  his  crown  was  being  reft 
away.  But  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  commoner 
form  of  mo'hid  misery  than  that  of  the  poor  nervous 
man  or  vvoman  who  fancies  that  he  or  she  is  the  sub- 
ject of  Mniver.~al  unkindly  remark.  You  will  find  peo- 
ple, still  sane  for  practical  purposes,  who  think  that  the 
whole  neighborhood  is  r-onspiring  against  them,  when  in 
fact  nobody  is  thinking  rf  them. 

All  these  pages  Inve  been  spent  in  discussing  a  single 
thing  slowly  learnt ;  the  remaining  matters  to  be  consid- 
ered in  this  essay  must  be  treated  briefly. 

Another  thing  slowly  learnt  is  that  we  have  no  reason 
or  right  to  be  angry  with  people  because  they  think  poorly 
of  us.  This  is  a  truth  which  most  people  find  it  very 
hard  to  accept,  and  at  which,  probably,  very  few  arrive 
without  pretty  long  thought  and  experience.  Most  peo- 
ple are  angry  when  they  are  informed  that  some  one  has 
said  that  their  ability  is  small,  or  that  their  proficiency  ia 


THINGS   SLOWLY   LEAKNT.  79 

uny  art  is  limited.  Mrs.  Malaprop  was  very  indignant 
when  she  found  that  some  of  her  friends  had  spoker 
lightly  of  her  parts  of  speech.  Mr.  Snarling  was  wroth 
when  he  learned  that  Mr.  Jollikin  thought  him  no  great 
preacher.  Miss  Brown  was  soon  hearing  that  Mr.  Smith 
did  not  admire  her  singing  ;  and  Mr.  Smith  on  learning 
that  Miss  Brown  did  not  admire  his  horsemanship.  Some 
authors  feel  angry  on  reading  an  unfavorable  I'eview  of 
tlieir  book.  The  present  writer  has  been  treated  very, 
very  kindly  by  the  critics  ;  far  more  so  ihan  he  ever  de- 
served; yet  he  rememljers  sliowing  a  notice  of  him  which 
was  intended  to  extinguish  him  for  all  coming  time,  to  a 
warm-hearted  friend,  who  read  it  with  gathering  wrath, 
and  vehemently  starting  up  at  its  close,  exclaimed  (we 
knew  who  wrote  the  notice)  "  Now,  I  shall  go  straight 
and  kick  that  fellow  ! "  Now  all  this  is  very  natural  ; 
but  assuredly  it  is  quite  wrong.  You  understand,  of 
course,  that  I  am  thinking  of  unfavorable  opinions  of 
you,  honestly  held,  and  expressed  without  malice.  I  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  you  would  choose  ibr  your  special 
friend  or  companion  one  who  thought  meaidy  of  your 
ability  or  your  sense  ;  it  would  not  be  jileasant  to  have 
him  always  by  you  ;  and  the  very  fact  of  his  presence 
would  tend  to  keep  you  from  doing  justice  to  yourself. 
For  it  is  true,  that  when  with  jieople  who  think  you 
veiy  clever  and  wise,  you  really  iire  a  good  deal  cle\erer 
and  wiser  than  usual ;  while  with  people  who  think  you 
stupii  and  silly,  you  find  yourself  under  a  malign  ir.- 
llucnoe  which  tends  to  make  you  actually  so  tor  the  time. 
If  you  want  a  man  to  gain  any  good  quality,  the  way  is 
to  give  him  credit  ibr  possessing  it.  If  ht^  has  i)ut  little, 
give  him  credit  ibr  all  hn  has,  at  least  ;  and  yoi  will  find 
hiiu  daily  get  more.     You  know  how  Arnold  made  boys 


80  CONCERNING 

truthful  ;  it  was  by  giving  lliem  credit  for  truth.  Oh 
that  wc  all  fitly  understood  that  tlie  same  grand  prin- 
ciple should  be  extended  to  all  good  qualities,  inteU 
lectual  and  moral  !  Di'rigently  in>til  into  a  boy  that 
he  is  a  stupid,  idle,  bad-hearted  blockhead,  and  you  ai'C 
very  likely  to  make  him  all  tJiat.  And  so  you  can  see 
bat  it  is  not  judicious  to  choose  for  a  special  friend  and 
ssociate  one  who  thinks  poorly  of  one's  sense  or  one's 
parts.  Indeed,  if  such  a  one  honestly  thinks  poorly  of 
you,  and  has  any  moral  earnestness,  you  could  not  get 
him  for  a  special  friend  if  you  wished  it.  Let  us  clioose 
for  our  companions  (if  such  can  be  found)  those  who 
think  well  and  kindly  of  us,  even  though  we  may  know 
within  ourselves  that  they  tiiink  too  kindly  and  too  wcdl. 
For  that  fiivorable  estimation  will  bring  out  and  foster 
all  that  is  good  in  us.  There  is  between  this  and  the 
unfavorable  judgment  all  the  difT'erence  between  the 
warm,  genial  sunshine,  that  draws  forth  the  flowers  and 
encourages  them  to  o\H\n  their  leaves,  and  the  nipping 
frost  or  the  blighting  east-wind  tliat  represses  and  dis- 
heartens all  vegetable  life.  But  though  thus  you  would 
not  choose  for  your  special  companion  one  Avho  thinks 
poorly  of  you,  and  though  you  might  not  even  wish  to 
see  him  very  often,  you  have  no  reason  to  have  any 
angry  feeling  towards  him.  He  cannot  help  his  opinion. 
His  opinion  is  determined  by  his  lights.  His  opinion, 
possibly,  founds  on  those  aesthetic  con>idei-ations  as  to 
which  people  will  never  think  alike,  with  which  there  is 
no  reasoning,  and  for  wliich  there  is  no  accounting.  God 
has  made  him  so  that  he  dislikes  your  book,  or  at  least 
cannot  lieartily  appreciate  it ;  and  that  is  not  his  fault. 
And,  holding  his  opinion,  he  is  quite  entitled  to  express 
it.     Tt  may  not  be  polite  to  express  it  to  yourself.     By 


THIN(;.S   SLOWLY   LEARNT.  81 

common  consent  it.  is  iiiidei-stood  that  you  are  never,  ex- 
cept ill  eases  of  ab.-oliite  necessity,  to  say  to  any  man 
that  which  is  disagreeable  to  him.  And  if  you  go,  and, 
v;ithout  any  call  to  do  so,  express  to  a  man  liimself  that 
you  think  poorly  of  him,  he  may  justly  complain,  not  of 
your  unfavorable  opinion  of  him,  but  of  the  malice  which 
is  implied  in  your  needlessly  informing  him  of  it.  But  if 
any  one  expresses  such  an  unfavorable  opinion  of  you  in 
your  absence,  and  some  one  comes  and  repeats  it  to  3'ou, 
be  angry  with  the  person  who  repeats  the  opinion  to  you, 
not  with  the  person  who  expressed  it.  For  what  you  do 
not  know  will  cause  you  no  })ain.  And  all  sensible  folk, 
aware  how  estimates  of  any  mortal  must  differ,  will,  in 
the  long  run,  attach  nearly  the  just  weight  to  any  o[)inion, 
favorable  or  unfavorable. 

Yes,  my  friend,  utterly  put  down  the  natui-al  tendency 
in  your  heart  to  be  angry  with  the  man  who  thinks  poorly 
of  you.     For  you  have,  in  sober  reason,  no  right  to  be 
angry  with  him.     It  is  more  pleasant,  and  indeed  more 
profitable,  to  live  among  those  who  think  higiily  of  you. 
It  makes  you  better.     You  actually  grow  into  what  you 
get  credit  for.    Oh  how  much  better  a  clergyman  preaches 
to  his  own  congregation,  who  listen  with  kindly  and  sym- 
pathetic attention  to  all  he  says,  and  always  think  too  well 
of  him,  than  to  a  set  of  ci-itical  strangers,  eager  to  find 
faults  and  to  pick  holes  !     And  how  heartily  and  pleas- 
antly the  essayist  covers  his  pages,  which  are  to  go  into  a 
magazine  wiiosc  readers  have  come  to  know  him  well,  and 
to  bear  with  all  his  ways  !     If  every  one  thought  him  a 
dull  and  stupid  person,  he  could  not  write  at  all.     Indeed, 
he  would  bow  to  the  general  belief,  and  accept  the  truth 
that  he  is  dull  and  stupid.     But  further,  my  reader,  let 
us  be  reasonable  when  it  is  pleasant ;  and  let  us  sorae- 
G 


82  CONCERNING 

times  be  irrational  when  that,  is  pleasant  too.  It  ia 
natural  to  liave  a  very  kindly  feelini^  to  those  who  think 
well  of  us.  Now,  thoiijrii,  in  severe  ti'ulh,  we  liave  no 
more  reason  for  wi>hing  to  shake  hands  with  tlie  man 
who  thinks  well  of  us,  than  for  wishini^  to  shake  the  man 
who  thinks  ill  of  ns  ;  yet  let  us  yield  heartily  to  the  for- 
mer plea-ant  impulse.  It  is  not  reasonable,  but  it  is  all 
right.  You  cannot  help  liking  people  who  estimate  you 
favorably,  and  say  a  good  word  of  you.  No  doubt  we 
might  slowly  learn  not  to  like  them  more  than  anybody 
else;  but  we  need  not  take  (lie  trouble  to  learn  that  les- 
son. Let  us  all,  my  readers,  l)e  glad  if  we  can  reach  that 
cheerrui  position  of  mind  at  which  various  authors  liave 
arrived,  that  we  shall  be  extremely  gratified  when  we 
find  ourselves  favorably  reviewe<l,  and  not  in  the  lea«;t 
angry  when  we  find  ourselves  reviewed  unfavorably; 
that  we  shall  have  a  very  kin<]ly  feeling  towards  such  as 
think  well  of  us,  and  no  unkind  feeling  whatever  to  those 
who  think  ill  of  us.  Thus,  whenever  we  have  written 
an  aiticle  in  a  magazine,  at  the  beginning  of  the  month 
shall  we  look  with  equal  minds  at  the  newspaper  notices 
of  it;  we  siiall  be  soothed  and  exhilarated  when  we  find 
ourselves  described  as  sages,  and  we  shall  be  amused  and 
interested  when  we  find  ourselves  shown  up  as  little  bet- 
ter than  geese. 

Of  course,  it  makes  a  difference  in  the  feeling  with 
which  you  ought  to  regard  any  unfavorable  opinion  of 
you,  whetlier  spoken  or  written,  if  the  unfavorable  opinion 
which  is  expressed  be  plainly  not  honestly  lield,  and  be 
maliciously  expressed.  You  may  occasionally  hear  a 
judgment  expressed  of  a  young  girl's  music  or  dancing, 
of  a  gentleman's  horses,  of  a  preacher's  sermons,  of  an 
author's  books,  which  is  manifestly  dictated  by  personal 


THINGS   SLOWLY   LEARNT.  83 

ppite  and  jealousy,  and  wliich  is  expressed  with  the  in- 
tention of  doing  mischief  and  giving  pain  to  the  person 
of  whom  the  judgment  is  expressed.  You  will  occasion- 
ally find  such  judgments  supported  by  wilful  misrepresen- 
tation, and  even  by  pure  invention.  In  such  a  case  as 
this,  the  essential  thing  is  not  the  unfavorable  opinion  ;  it 
is  the  malice  which  leads  to  its  entertainment  and  expres- 
sion. And  the  conduct  of  the  offending  party  should  be 
regarded  with  that  feeling  which,  on  calm  thought,  you 
discern  to  be  the  right  feeling  with  Mhich  to  regard 
malice,  accompanied  by  falsehood.  Then  is  it  well  to  be 
angry  here  ?  I  think  not.  You  may  see  that  it  is  not 
safe  to  have  anj  communication  with  a  person  who  will 
abuse  and  misrepresent  you  ;  it  is  not  safe,  and  it  is  not 
pleasant.  But  don't  be  angry.  It  is  not  worth  while. 
Tliat  old  lady,  indeed,  told  all  her  friends  that  you  said, 
in  your  book,  something  she  knew  quite  well  you  did  not 
say.  Mr.  Snarling  did  the  like.  But  the  offences  of 
such  people  are  not  worth  powder  and  shot ;  and  besides 
this,  my  friend,  if  you  saw  the  case  from  their  point  of 
view,  you  might  see  that  they  have  something  to  say  for 
themselves.  You  failed  to  call  for  the  old  lady  so  often 
as  she  wished  you  should.  You  did  not  ask  I\Ir.  Snarling 
to  dinner.  These  are  bad  reasons  for  ])itching  into  you  ; 
but  still  they  are  reasons;  and  Mr.  Snarling  and  the  old 
lady,  by  long  brooding  over  them,  may  have  come  to 
think  that  they  are  very  just  and  weighty  reasons.  And 
did  you  never,  my  friend,  speak  ratli(;r  inikindly  of  these 
two  persons  ?  Did  you  never  give  a  ludicrous  account 
of  their  goings-on,  or  even  an  ill-set  account,  which  some 
kind  iriend  was  sure  to  repeat  to  them  ?  Ah,  my  reader; 
don't  be  too  hard  on  Snarling ;  possibly  you  have  your- 
self done   something  very  like  what  he   is   doing   now. 


84  CONCERNING 

Forgivp,  as  you  need  to  be  forgiven  !  And  try  to  attain 
tliat  quite  atlaiiiablc  tcmpei',  in  wiiicli  you  will  read  or 
listen  to  the  most  mali,j;uaiit  attack  upon  you,  with  cui'ios- 
ity  and  amusement,  and  witii  no  angry  feeling  at  all.  I 
suppose  great  people  attain  to  this.  I  mean  cabinet 
ministers  and  the  like,  who  are  daily  fla3'ed  in  print 
fomewhere  or  other.  They  come  to  take  it  all  quite 
easily.  And  if  they  were  pure  angids,  somebody  would 
attack  them.  Most  peo{)le,  even  those  who  differ  from 
liim,  know  that  if  this  world  has  a  humble,  conscientious, 
pious  man  in  it,  that  man  is  the  present  Arciibishop  of 
Canterbury.  Yet  last  night  I  read  in  a  certain  powerful 
journal,  that  the  great  chai'acteristics  of  that  good  man, 
are  cowardice,  trickery,  and  simple  rascality  !  Honest 
Mr.  Bumpkin,  kind-hearted  Miss  Goodbody,  do  you  fancy 
that  you  can  escape  ? 

Then  we  ought  to  trj'  to  fix  it  in  our  mind,  that  in  all 
matters  into  which  taste  enters  at  all,  the  mo<t  honest  and 
the  most  able  men  may  hopelessly,  diametrically,  ditfer. 
Oi'iginal  idiosyncrasy  has  so  m'lch  to  say  here ;  and  train- 
ing has  also  so  much.  One  cultivated  and  honest  man 
has  an  enthusiastic  and  most  real  love  and  enjoyment  of 
Gothic  architecture,  and  an  absolute  hatred  for  that  of 
the  classic  revival ;  another  man  equally  cultivated  and 
honest,  has  tastes  which  are  the  logical  couti-adictory  of 
Ihes3.  No  one  can  doubt  the  ability  of  Byron,  or  of 
Sheridan  ;  yet  each  of  them  thought  very  little  of  Shaks- 
peare.  The  que>tioM  x^^ivJutt  suits  you'?  You  may  have 
the  strongest  conviction  that  you  ought  to  like  an  author; 
you  may  be  ashamed  to  confess  that  you  don't  like  him; 
and  yet  you  may  feel  that  you  detest  him.  For  my 
self,  I  confess  with  shame,  and  I  know  the  reason  is  in 
myse.lf,  I  cannot  fur  my  life  see  anything  to  admii-e  in  the 


THINGS    SLOWLY    LEARNT.  85 

writings  of  Mr.  Carljle.  His  style,  both  of  thought  and 
hinguage,  is  to  me  insufferably  irritating.  I  tried  to  read 
the  Sartor  Resartus,  and  could  not  do  it.  So  if  all  peo- 
ple who  have  learned  to  read  English  were  like  noe,  Mr. 
Carlyle  would  have  no  reader?.  Happily  the  majority,  in 
most  cases,  possesses  the  normal  taste.  At  least  there  is 
no  fiirtiier  appeal  than  to  the  de-iberate  judgment  of  the 
majority  of  educ^vted  men.  I  confess,  further,  that  I 
would  rather  read  Mr.  Ilcijis  than  Milton  :  I  do  not  say 
that  I  think  Mr.  Helps  the  greater  man,  but  that  I  feel 
he  suits  me  better.  I  value  the  Autocrat  of  tlte  Break' 
fast-table  more  highly  than  all  the  writings  of  Shelley  put 
tojiethei'.  It  is  a  curious  tiling  to  read  various  reviews 
of  the  same  book  ;  particularly  if  it  be  one  of  those  books 
which,  if  you  like  at  all,  you  will  like  very  much,  and 
which  if  you  don't  like  you  will  absolutely  hate.  It  is 
curious  to  find  opinions  flatly  contradictory  of  one  another 
set  forth  in  those  reviews  by  very  able,  cultivated,  and 
unprejudiced  men.  There  is  no  newspai)er  published  in 
Britain  which  contains  abler  writing  than  the  Edinburgk 
Scotsman.  And  of  course  no  one  need  say  anything  as 
to  the  literary  merits  of  the  Times.  AVell,  one  day  with- 
in the  last  few  inoiuh-,  the  7\'mcs  and  the  Scotsman  each 
published  a  somewhat  elaborate  review  of  a  certain  book. 
The  reviews  were  Hatly  o[)posed  to  one  another;  they 
had  no  common  ground  at  all  ;  one  Slid  the  book  was 
extremely  good,  and  the  other  that  it  was  extremely  bad. 
You  must  just  make  up  your  mind  that  in  matters  of  taste 
there  can  be  no  unvarying  standard  of  truth.  In  aesthetic 
matters,  truth  is  quite  relative.  What  is  bad  to  you,  is 
good  to  me  perhaps. 

If  you,  my  reader,  are  a  wise  and  kind-hearted  person 
(as  I  have  n^  doubt  whatever  but  you  are),  I  think  you 


86  CONCERNING 

would  like  very  much  to  meet  and  converge  with  any  pw 
son  who  has  formed  a  bad  opinion  of"  you.  You  would 
take  great  pleasure  in  overcoming  such  a  one's  prejudice 
against  you  ;  and  if  the  person  were  an  honest  and  worthy 
|)erson,  you  would  be  almost  certain  to  do  so.  Very  few 
folk  are  able  to  retain  any  bitter  feeling  towards  a  man 
they  have  actually  talked  with,  unless  the  bitter  feeling 
be  one  which  is  just.  And  a  very  great  proportion  of  all 
the  unfavorable  opinions  which  men  entertain  of  tlieir 
fellow-raen  found  on  some  misconception.  You  take  up 
somehow  an  impression  that  such  a  one  is  a  conceited, 
stuck-up  person  :  you  come  to  know  him,  and  you  find  he 
is  the  frankest  and  most  unaffected  of  men.  You  had  a 
belief  that  such  another  was  a  cynical,  heartless  being, 
till  you  met  him  one  day  coming  down  a  long  black  stair 
in  a  poor  ])art  of  the  toan  from  a  bare  chamber  in  which 
is  a  liitle  sick  child,  wiUi  two  large  tears  running  down  his 
face  ;  and  when  you  enter  tiie  [)oor  apartment  you  learn 
certain  facts  as  to  his  quiet  benevolence  which  compel  you 
suddenly  to  construct  a  new  theory  of  that  man's  charac- 
ter. It  is  only  people  who  are  radically  and  essentially 
bad  whom  you  can  really  dislike  after  you  come  to  know 
them.  And  the  human  beings  who  are  thus  essentially 
bad  are  very  few.  Something  of  the  original  Image  lin- 
gers yet  iu  almost  every  human  soul.  And  in  many  a 
homely,  commonplace  person,  what  with  vestiges  of  the 
old,  and  a  bles.-ed  planting-in  of  something  new,  there  is 
a  vast  deal  of  it.  And  (^\•^iry  human  being,  conscious  of 
honest  intention  and  of  a  kind  heart,  may  well  wish  that 
the  man  who  di.-likes  and  abuses  him  could  just  know  him. 
But  thei'e  are  human  beings  whom,  if  you  are  wi?e, 
you  would  not  wi.^h  to  know  you  t(Jo  well.  I  mean  the 
human  beiugs  (if  such  there  should  be)  who  think   very 


THINGS    SLOWLY    LEARNT.  87 

'liijrhly  of  you  ;  wlio  imagine  you  very  clever  and  very 
amiable.  Keep  out  of  the  way  of  such  !  Let  them  see 
as  little  of  you  as  jiossible.  For  when  they  come  to  know 
you  well,  they  are.  quite  sure  to  be  disenchanted.  The 
enthusiastic  ideal  which  young  people  form  of  any  one 
tliey  admire  is  smaslied  by  tlie  rude  presence  of  facts.  I 
have  got  somewliat  beyond  the  stage  of  feeling  enthusias- 
tic admiration,  yet  tliere  are  two  or  three  living  men 
whom  I  should  be  sorry  to  see.  I  know  I  should  never 
admire  them  so  much  any  more.  I  never  saw  Mr. 
Dickens:  I  don't  want  to  see  him.  Let  us  leave  Yarrow 
unvisited  :  our  sweet  ideal  is  i'airer  than  the  fairest  fact. 
No  hero  is  a  hero  to  his  valet :  and  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  any  clergyman  is  a  saint  to  his  beadle.  Yet  the 
hero  may  be  a  true  hero,  and  the  clergyman  a  very  ex- 
cellent man  :  but  no  human  being  can  bear  too  close  in- 
spection. I  remember  hearing  a  clever  and  enthusiastic 
young  lady  comi)laiii  of  what  sliii  had  suffered  on  meeting 
a  certain  great  bishop  at  dinner.  No  doubt  lie  was  digni- 
tied,  plea>ant,  clever;  l)ut  the  mysterious  halo  was  no 
longer  round  his  head.  Here  is  a  sad  circumstance  ia 
the  lot  of  a  very  eminent  man  :  I  mean  such  a  man  as 
]\Ir.  Teiniyson  or  Professor  Longfellow.  As  an  elephant 
walks  through  a  field,  crushing  the  crop  at  every  step,  so 
do  these  men  advance  through  life,  smashing,  every  time 
they  dine  out,  the  enthusiastic  fancies  of  seveial  romantic 
j'oung  people. 

This  was  to  have  been  a  short  essay.  But  you  see  it 
is  already  long  ;  and  I  have  treated  only  two  of  tiie  four 
Things  Slowly  Learnt  which  I  had  noted  down.  The 
other  two  must  be  very  briefly  stated. 

The  first  of  the  two  things  is  a  practical  lesson.     It  is 


88  COXCEIiNING 

this :  to  nllow  for  human  folly,  laziness,  carelessness,  and 
the  like,  just  as  you  allow  for  the  propei'ties  of  matter, 
sueh  as  weight,  friclion,  and  the  like,  without  heing  sur- 
prised or  angry  at  them.  You  know  that  if  a  man  is 
lifting  a  pieee  of  lead  he  does  not  think  of  getting  into  a 
rage  because  it  is  heavy ;  or  if  a  man  is  dragging  a  tree 
along  the  ground  he  does  not  get  into  a  rage  because  it 
plows  deeply  into  the  earth  as  it  comes.  He  is  not  sur- 
prised at  these  things.  They  are  nothing  new.  It  is 
just  what  he  counted  on.  But  you  will  find  that  the 
same  man,  if  his  servants  are  lazy,  careless,  and  forget- 
ful;  or  if  his  friends  are  petted,  wrong-headed,  and  im- 
practicable; will  not  only  get  quite  angry,  but  will  get 
freshly  angry  at  each  new  action  which  proves  that  his 
friends  or  servants  ])()ssess  these  characteristics.  Would 
it  not  be  better  to  make  up  your  mind  that  such  things 
are  characteristic  of  humanity,  and  so  that  you  must  look 
for  them  in  dealing  with  human  beings?  And  would  it 
not  be  better,  too,  to  regard  each  new  proof  of  laziness, 
not  as  a  new  thing  to  be  angry  with,  but  merely  as  a 
piece  of  the  one  great  fact  tiiat  your  servant  is  lazy,  with 
which  you  get  angry  once  for  all,  and  have  done  with  it? 
If  your  servant  makes  twenty  blunders  a  da}',  do  not  re- 
gard them  as  twenty  separate  facts  at  which  to  get  angiy 
twenty  several  times.  Regard  them  just  as  twenty  proofs 
of  the  one  fact,  that  your  servant  is  a  blunderer  ;  and  be 
angry  just  once,  and  no  more.  Or  if  some  one  you  know 
gives  twenty  indications  in  a  day  that  he  or  she  (let  Uo  say 
she)  is  of  a  petted  temper,  regard  these  merely  as  twenty 
proofs  of  one  lamentable  fact,  and  not  as  twenty  differ- 
ent facts  to  be  separately  lamented.  You  accept  the 
fact  that  the  person  is  petted  and  ill-tempered:  you  re- 
gret it  and  blame  it  once  fur  all.     And  after  this  once 


THINGS    SLOWLY    LEARNT.  89 

you  take  as  of  course  all  new  manire?tation.s  of  petted- 
ness  and  ill-leniper.  And  you  are  no  more  surprised  at 
tliem,  or  angry  with  them,  tlian  you  are  at  lead  for  being 
heavy,  or  at  down  for  being  liglit.  It  is  their  nature,  and 
you  calculate  on  it,  and  allow  for  it. 

Then  the  second  of  the  two  remaining  things  is  this  — 
that  you  have  no  rigiit  to  complain  if  you  are  fiostponed 
to  greater  people,  or  if  you  are  treated  with  less  consid- 
eration than  you  would  be  if  you  were  a  greater  person. 
Uneducated  people  are  very  slow  to  learn  this  most  ob- 
vious lesson.  I  remember  hearing  of  a  proud  old  lady, 
who  was  proprietor  of  a  small  landed  estate  in  Scotland. 
She  had  many  relations,  some  greater,  some  less.  The 
greater  she  much  affected,  the  less  she  wholly  ignored. 
But  they  did  not  ignore  Jier  ;  and  one  morning  an  indi- 
vidual arrived  at  her  mansion-house,  bearing  a  large  box 
on  his  back.  He  was  a  travelling  peddler ;  and  he  sent 
up  word  to  the  old  lady  that  he  was  her  cousin,  and 
hoped  she  woidd  buy  something  from  him.  The  old  lady 
indignantly  refused  to  see  him,  and  sent  orders  that  he 
should  tbrthvvith  quit  the  house.  The  peddler  went ;  but 
on  reaching  the  court-yard,  he  turned  to  the  inhospitable 
dwelling,  and  in  a  loud  voice  exclaimed,  in  the  ears  of 
every  mortal  in  the  house,  "  Ay,  if  I  had  come  in  my 
carrlage-and-fonr,  ye  wad  have  been  jyruud  to  have  ta'en 
me  in!"  The  peddler  fancied  that  he  was  hurling  at  his 
relative  a  scathing  sarcasm  :  lur  did  not  see  that  he  was 
simply  stating  a  j)erfectly  unquestional)le  (act.  No  doubt 
eartldy,  if  he  had  come  in  a  carriage-aml-four,  he  would 
have  got  a  hearty  welcome,  and  he  would  have  fbinid  his 
claim  of  kindred  eagerly  allowed.  But  he  thought  he 
was  saying   a  bitter  and  cutting  thing,  and  (strange  to 


90  CONCERNING 

say)  the  old  lady  fancied  she  was  listening  to  a  bitter  and 
cutting  tiling.  He  was  merely  expressing  a  certain  and 
innocuous  trulh.  lUit  though  all  mortals  know  that  in 
this  world  big  [jcople  meet  greater  respect  than  small 
(and  quite  i-ight  too),  most,  mortals  seem  to  find  the  prin- 
ci[)le  a  vei-y  un|ileasant  one  when  it  comes  home  to  tliein- 
eelves.  And  we  learn  but  slowly  to  acquiesce  in  seeing 
ourselves  plainly  subordinated  to  other  people.  Poor 
Oliver  Goldsmith  was  very  angry  when  at  the  club  one 
night  he  was  sto|)ped  in  the  middle  of  a  story  by  a 
Dutchman,  who  had  noticed  that  the  Great  Bear  was 
rolling  about  in  preparation  for  speaking,  and  who  ex- 
claimed to  Goldsmith,  '•  Stop,  stop  ;  Toctor  Shonson  is 
going  to  speak  !  "  Once  I  arrived  at  a  certain  railw;iy 
station.  Two  old  ladies  were  waiting  to  go  by  the  same 
train.  I  knew  them  well,  and  they  expressed  their  de- 
light that  we  were  going  the  same  way.  "  Let  us  go  in 
the  same  carriage,"  said  the  younger,  in  earnest  tones  ; 
'•  and  will  you  be  so  very  kind  as  to  see  about  our  lug- 
gage?" After  a  few  minutes  of  the  lively  talk  of  the 
period  and  district,  the  train  came  up.  I  feel  the  tremor 
of  the  platform  yet.  I  handed  iny  friends  into  a  car- 
riage, and  then  saw  their  baggage  [)laced  in  the  van.  It 
was  a  station  at  which  trains  stop  for  a  few  minutes  for 
refreshments.  So  I  went  to  the  door  of  the  carriage 
into  which  I  had  put  them,  and  waited  a  little  before  tak- 
ing my  seat.  I  expected  that  my  friends  would  proceed 
with  the  conversation  which  had  been  interrupted  ;  but 
to  my  a>toni-hment  I  found  that  I  had  become  wholly 
invisible  to  them.  They  did  not  see  me  or  speak  to  mo 
nt  all.  In  the  carriage  with  them  was  a  living  peer,  of 
wide  estates  and  great  rank,  whom  they  knew.  And  so 
thoroughly  did  he  engross  their  eyes  and  thoughts  and 


THINGS    SLOWLY    LEARNT.  91 

words,  that  tliey  hud  become  unaware  of  my  presence, 
or  even  nay  existence.  The  stronger  sensation  rendered 
them  unconscious  of  the  weaker.  Do  you  think  I  fell 
angry  ?  No,  I  did  not.  I  felt  very  much  amu-ed.  I 
recognized  a  shght  manifestation  of  a  grand  principle.  It 
was  a  straw  showing  how  a  cui'rent  set.*,  but  for  which 
Britain  would  not  be  the  country  it  is.  I  took  my  seat 
in  another  carriage,  and  placidly  read  my  Times.  There 
was  one  lady  in  tiiat  carriage.  I  think  she  inferred, 
from  the  smiles  which  occasionally  for  the  first  few  miles 
overspread  my  countenance  v/ithout  apparent  cause,  that 
my  mind  was  slightly  disordered. 

These  are  the  two  things  already  mentioned.  But 
you  cannot  understand,  friendly  reader,  what  an  effort 
it  has  cost  me  to  treat  them  so  briefly.  The  experienced 
critic  will  discern  at  a  glance  that  the  author  could  easily 
have  made  a  great  many  j)ages  out  of  the  material  you 
have  here  in  very  few.  The  author  takes  his  stand  upon 
this — that  there  are  {\'a\'  people  who  can  beat  out  thought 
so  thin,  or  say  so  little  in  such  a  great  number  of  words. 
1  remember  how  a  dear  friend,  once  the  editor  of  a  cer- 
tain well-known  magazine  (whom  all  who  knew  him  well 
miss  more  and  more  as  days  and  weeks  go  on,  and  never 
will  cease  to  miss),  used  to  remark  this  fact  in  various 
warm-hearted  and  playful  letters,  with  wonder  not  un- 
mixed with  indignation.  And  I  remember  how  a  very 
great  prelate  (who  could  compress  all  I  have  said  into 
a  page  and  a  half)  once  comibrted  me  by  telling  ine  that 
for  the  consumption  of  many  minds  it  was  desirable  that 
thought  should  be  very  greatly  diluted  ;  that  quantity  as 
well  as  quality  is  needful  in  the  dietetics  both  of  the  body 
and  the  mind.  With  this  soothing  reflection  I  close  the 
present  essay. 


'J-2  CONCKRXING   THINGS   SLOWLY   LEARNT. 

Annotations  on  the  fore(jo'inrj    Chapter. 
Br  THE  AuciiBisnop  of  Duijlix. 

(1.)  The  Indian  Bralimiii  who  purchfised,  for  a  great 
price,  ail  elaborate  microscope  which  had  shown  him  tlial 
he  swallowed  multitudes  of  minute  animalcuhe  in  every 
draught  of  water,  dashed  it  to  pieces,  saying  it  should 
never  intiiet  that  misery  upon  otliers  it  had  upon  him. 

(2.)  E.  S.  (now  Lord  St.  L.),  is  the  son  of  a  hairdresser, 
said  to  have  bi^en  very  eminent  in  his  own  way.  A  gen- 
tleman a>ked  the  man  who  was  cutting  his  iiair  whether 
he  remembered  anything  of  him.  '*  01),  yes ;  I  remem- 
ber him  very  well  wlien  1  was  an  appretitice.  Wonderful 
man  !  Had  half-a-guinea  for  cutting  hair!  Nobody  liki; 
him  since  !  "  "  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  his  son  is  a  very 
eminent  man  too  in  his  way."  ''  Oh,  is  he,  sir?"  '*  Yes; 
(lie  lirst  lawyer  in  England."  "Oh,  is  he,  sir — 1  never 
heard  of  him.'' 

(3.)  A  gentleman  who  was  fond  of  attending  at  the 
Lord  Mayor  of  London's,  to  hear  the  trials  and  petitions 
and  memorials  that  wi're  going  on,  heard  a  memorial  sent 
in  by  some  Chiinney-8weep(;rs,  who  complained  "of  an 
interference  whl(;h  encroaciied  on  tlieir  annual  May-Day 
festival,  on  wiiich  they  dress  themselves  u[)  and  go  round 
to  receive  contributions  from  their  customers.  They 
complained  that  their  place  had  been  usurped  by  certain 
Dustmen  ami  other  low  fellows  pretending  to  he  Chimney* 
Sweepers  I 


CHAPTER  IV. 
GONE. 


^¥TST>^^  I>GAR  ALLAN  FOE  ihonglit  the  most 
|.|^^^('^j|  toiicliinnj  of  all  words,  Nevermore;  which, 
^W  'i^^'-i  '"  AiiuM'ican  fa-!iioii,  hf  inarle  one  word. 
'■^Am^^^^.S,  American  writers  do  the  like  with  Forever, 
I  think  with  bad  effect.  EUesmere,  in  that  most  beauti- 
ful f^tory  of  Gretchen.  tells  of  a  sermon  he  heard  in  Ger- 
many, in  which  '•  that  pathetic  word  verJoren  (lo~t)  oc- 
curred many  times."  Every  one  knows  what  Dr.  .Johnson 
wrote  alKHit  The  Lnsl.  It  is,  of  course,  a  (inestion  of 
individual  a-socialions  and  how  it  may  strike  different 
minds  ;  but  I  sland  up  for  the  unrivalled  reach  and  pathos 
of  the  short  word  Gonm:. 

There  is  not  very  much  difference,  you  see,  between 
the  three  words.  All  are  on  the  suburbs  of  the  same 
idea.  All  convey  the  idea  of  a  state  of  matters  which 
existed  for  a  time,  and  which  is  now  over.  All  sugj;ost 
that  the  inmost  longing  of  mo-t  human  hearts  is  less  lor 
a  future,  untried  happiness  than  for  a  return,  a  resurrec- 
tion, beautified  and  unalloyed  with  care,  of  what  has 
alr(!ad\'  been.  Somehow,  we  are  ready  to  feel  as  it  we 
were  safest  and  surest  with  ihat. 

It  is  curious  that  the  saddest  and  most  touching  of 
human  thouglits,  when  we  run  it  up  to  its  simplest  form, 
is  of  so  homely  a  thing  as  a  material  object  existing  in  a 


94  GONE. 

certain   space,   and    then    removing    from   that  space  to 
anollier.      TJiat  is  tlie  essential  idea  of  Gone. 

Yet,  in  the  commonest  way,  there  is  something  toncii- 
ing  ill  that:  sometliing  touching  in  the  sight  of  vacant 
space,  once  filled  by  almost  anything.  You  feel  a  blank- 
ness  in  the  hin(lsca|)e  wlien  a  tree  is  gone  that  you  have 
known  all  your  life.  You  are  conscious  of  a  vague  sense 
of  something  lacking  when  even  a  post  is  pulled  up  that 
you  remember  always  in  the  centre  of  a  certain  field. 
\(\\x  feel  this  yet  more  when  some  familiar  piece  of  fur- 
niture is  taken  away  from  a  room  which  you  know  well. 
Here  that  clumsy  easy-cluiir  used  to  stand  :  and  it  is  gOne. 
You  feel  yourself  an  interloper,  standing  in  tlie  space 
where  it  stood  so  long.  It  touches  you  still  more  to  look 
at  the  empty  chair  which  you  remember  so  often  filled 
by  one  who  will  never  fill  it  more.  You  stand  in  a  large 
railway  station  :  you  have  cotne  to  see  a  train  depart. 
There  is  a  great  bustle  on  the  platform,  and  there  is  a 
great  quantity  of  human  life,  and  of  the  interests  and 
cares  of  human  life,  in  those  twelve  or  fourteen  carriages, 
and  filling  that  little  space  bi-tween  the  rails.  You  stand 
by  and  watch  the  warm  interiors  of  the  carriages,  looking 
so  large,  and  so  full,  and  as  if  they  had  so  much  in  them. 
There  are  ])eople  of  every  kind  of  aspect,  children  and 
old  folk,  multitudes  of  railway  rugs,  of  carpet-bags,  of 
portmanteaus,  of  parcels,  of  newspapers,  of  books,  of 
magazines.  At  length  you  hear  the  la>t  bell;  then  comes 
that  silent,  steady  pull,  which  is  always  striking,  though 
seen  ever  .so  often.  The  train  glides  away :  it  is  gone. 
You  stand,  and  look  vacantly  at  the  place  where  it  wa.s. 
How  little  the  space  looks  ;  how  blank  the  air  !  There  aro 
the  two  rails,  just  four  feet  eight  and  a  half  inches  apart: 
how  close  together  they  look  !     You  can  hanlly  think  that 


GONE.  95 

there  was  so  much  of  life,  and  of  the  interests  of  life,  in 
so  little  room.  You  feel  the  power  upon  the  average 
human  being  of  the  simple,  commonplace  fact,  that  some- 
thing has  been  here,  and  is  gone. 

Then  I  go  away  in  thought,  to  a  certain  pier  :  a  pair 
of  wooden  piles,  ruiuiing  two  hundred  yards  into  the  s^a, 
at  a  quiet  spot  on  a  lovely  coa-t,  where  various  steam- 
vessels  call  on  a  summer  day.  You  stand  at  the  seaward 
end  of  the  i)ier,  where  it  broadens  into  a  considerable 
platform  :  and  you  look  down  on  the  deck  of  a  steamer 
lying  alongside.  What  a  bustle  :  what  a  hive  of  human 
beings,  and  their  children,  and  their  baggage,  their  hopes, 
fears,  and  schemes,  fills  that  space  upon  the  water  of  a 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  long  and  twenty-five  wide  !  And 
what  a  deafening  noise,  too,  of  escaping  steam  fills  the 
air!  Men  with  baggage  dash  up  against  you;  women 
shrilly  vociferate  al)0ve  the  roar  of  the  steam  ;  it  is  a 
fragment  of  the  vitality  and  hurry  of  the  great  city  car- 
ried tor  a  little  to  the  quiet  country-jilace.  But  the  last 
rope  is  thrown  off;  the  paddles  turn  ;  the;  steamer  moves 
—  it  is  gone.  There  is  the  bhuik  water,  churned  now 
into  foam,  but  in  a  few  minutes  transparent  green,  show- 
ing the  wooden  piles,  encrusted  with  sliells,  and  with 
weeds  that  wave  about  below  the  surface.  Tiiere  you 
stand,  and  look  vaguely,  and  lliink  vaguely.  It  is  a 
curious  feeling.  It  is  a  feeling  you  do  not  understaiit] 
except  by  experience.  And  to  a  thoughtful  person  a 
thing  does  not  become  commonplace  because  it  is  repeat- 
ed hundreds  of  thousands  of  times.  Tiiere  is  something 
strange  and  sometiiing  touching  about  even  a  steamboat 
going  away  from  a  pier  at  which  a  dozen  call  every 
day. 

But  you  sit  upon  the  pier,  you  saunter  upon  the  beach, 


96  GONE. 

yon  mad  the  newspapers ;  you  enjoy  the  sense  of  rest. 
The  day  wears  away,  and  in  the  evening  the  steamboat 
comes  baek  again.  It  has  travelled  scores  of  n)iles,  and 
carried  many  j)ers()ns  tiirough  many  scenes,  while  you 
were  resting  and  idling  through  these  hours;  and  the 
feeling  you  had  when  it  was  gone  is  ettiiced  by  its  return. 
Tluj  going  away  is  neutralized  by  the  coming  baek.  And 
to  understand  the  full  force  of  Gone  in  such  a  case,  you 
must  see  a  slii[)  go,  and  see  its  vacant  space  when  it  is 
gone,  when  it  goes  away  for  a  long  lime,  and  lakes  some 
with  it  who  go  forever.  Perhaps  you  know  by  experi- 
ence what  a  choking  sensafion  there  is  in  looking  at  an 
emigi'ant  vessel  clearing  out,  even  tliougii  you  have  no 
personal  interest  in  any.  one  on  board.  I  have  seen  such 
a  ship  depart  on  her  long  voyage.  I  remember  the 
confusion  and  hurry  that  attended  her  departure  :  the 
crowded  (leek,  tlironged  witli  old  and  young  ;  gi-ay-head- 
cd  men  bidding  firewell  to  their  native  land;  and  liltle 
children  who  would  carry  but  dim  remembrances  of 
Britain  to  the  distant  Australian  shore.  And  who  that 
lias  witnessed  such  a  scene  can  forget  how,  when  the 
canvas  was  spread  at  lengtii,  and  the  last  rope  cast  off, 
the  outburst  of  sobs  and  weeping  arose  as  the  great  ship 
solemnly  passed  away  ?  You  could  see  that  many  who 
l)arted  tliere,  had  not  understood  what  parting  means  till 
they  were  in  the  act  of  going.  You  could  see  that  the 
old  parents  who  were  willing,  they  thought,  to  part  from 
their  boy,  because  they  thought  his  chances  in  life  were 
so  much  better  in  the  new  coimtry,  had  not  quite  felt 
what  parting  from   him  was,  till  he  was  gone. 

Have  you  ever  been  one  of  a  large  gay  party  who 
have  made  an  excursion  to  some  beautiful  scene,  and 
had  a  picnic  festival?     Not  that  such  festivals  are  much 


GONE.  97 

to  be  approved  ;  at  least  to  spots  of  very  noble  scenery. 
The  noble  scenery  is  vulgarized  by  them.  There  is  an 
inconsistency  in  seeking  out  a  spot  whicli  ought  to  awe- 
strike,  merely  to  make  it  a  theatre  for  eating  and  drink- 
ing, for  stupid  joking  and  laughter.  No  ;  let  small-talk 
be  manufactured  somewhere  else.  And  the  influence  of 
the  lonely  place  is  lost,  its  spirit  is  unfelt,  unless  you  go 
alone,  or  go  with  very  few,  and  these  not  boisterously 
merry.  But  let  us  accept  the  picnic  as  a  fact.  It  has 
been,  and  the  party  has  been  very  large  and  very  lively. 
But  go  back  to  the  place  after  the  party  is  gone  ;  go  back 
a  minute  after  for  something  forgotten  ;  go  back  a  month 
or  a  year  after.  What  a  little  spot  it  is  that  you  occupied, 
and  how  blank  it  looks !  The  place  remains,  but  the 
{)eoi)le  are  gone  ;  and  we  so  lean  to  our  kind,  that  the 
place  alone  occui)ies  but  a  very  little  part  in  our  recol- 
lection of  any  passage  in  our  history  in  which  there  were 
both  scenery  and  human  life.  Or  go  back  after  several 
years  to  the  house  where  you  and  your  brothers  and 
sisters  were  children  together,  and  you  will  wonder  to  find 
how  small  and  how  blank  it  will  look.  It  will  touch  you, 
and  perhaps  deeply  ;  but  still  you  will  discern  that  not 
places,  but  persons,  are  the  true  objects  of  human  affec- 
tion ;  and  you  will  think  what  a  small  space  of  material 
ground  may  be  the  scene  of  what  are  to  you  great  human 
events  and  interests.  It  is  so  with  matters  on  a  grander 
scale.  How  little  a  space  was  ancient  Greece  —  how 
little  a  space  the  Holy  Land  I  Strip  these  of  their  his- 
toiy  and  their  associations,  and  they  are  insignificant. 
And  history  and  associations  are  invisible;  and  at  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  place  without  them  the  place  looks 
poor.  Let  the  little  child  die  that  was  the  light  and  hope 
of  a  great  dwelling,  and  you  will  understand  the  truth  of 
7 


1>»  GONE. 

the  poet's  reflection  on  the  loss  of  his:  "'Twas  strange 
that  such  a  little  thing,  Should  leave  a  blank  so  large!  " 

There  is  no  place  perhaps  where  you  have  such  a 
feeling  of  hiankness  when  life  has  gone  from  it  as  in  a 
church.  It  is  less  so,  if  the  church  be  a  very  grand  one, 
whicb  compels  you  to  attend  to  itself  a  good  deal,  even 
while  the  congregation  is  assembled.  But  if  the  church 
be  a  simple  one,  and  the  congregation  a  very  large  one, 
crowding  the  simple  church,  you  hardly  know  it  again 
when  the  congregation  is  gone.  You  could  not  believe 
that  such  a  vast  number  of  human  beings  could  have 
been  gathered  in  it.  The  place  is  unciianged,  yet  it  is 
quite  different.  It  is  a  curious  feeling  to  look  at  the 
empty  pulpit  where  a  very  great  preacher  once  was  ac- 
customed to  preach.  It  is  especially  so  if  it  be  thirty 
years  since  he  used  to  preach  thei'e  ;  more  so,  if  it  be 
many  centuries.  I  have  often  looked  at  the  pulpit 
whence  Clialmers  preached  in  the  zenith  of  his  fame ; 
you  can  no  more  bring  up  again  the  excited  throng  that 
surrounded  it,  and  the  rush  of  the  great  orator's  elo- 
quence, than  when  standing  under  a  great  oak  in  De- 
cember you  can  call  up  plainly  what  it  looked  in  June. 
And  far  less,  standing  under  the  dome  of  St.  So])hia, 
could  one  recall  as  a  jjresent  reality,  or  as  anything  but 
a  dreamy  fancy,  the  as[)ect  and  the  eloquence  of  Chry- 
Fostom,  ages  since  gone. 

The  feeling  of  blankness,  which  is  the  essential  thing 
contained  in  the  idea  suggested  by  the  word  Gone,  is 
one  that  touches  us  very  nearly.  It  seems  to  get  closer 
to  us  than  even  positive  evil  or  suffering  present  with 
us.  That  fixes  our  attention  :  it  arouses  us  ;  and  unless 
we  be  very  weak  indeed,  awakens  something  of  resist- 
ance.     But  in  the  other  case,  the  mind  is  not  stimulated 


GONE.  99 

It  IS  receptive,  not  active  ;  and  we  muse  and  feel,  va- 
cantly, in  the  tlionglit  of  something  gone.  You  are,  let 
us  suppose,  a  country  par.-on  ;  you  take  your  wife  and 
children  over  to  your  railway-station,  and  you  see  them 
away  to  the  seaside,  whither  you  are  not  to  follow  for  a 
fortnight :  then  you  come  back  from  the  railway-station, 
and  you  reach  home.  The  house  is  quite  changed. 
ITow  startlingly  quiet  it  is !  You  go  to  the  nursery, 
usually  a  noisy  place :  you  feel  the  silence.  'I'here  are 
the  pictures  on  the  walls :  there  the  little  chairs  :  there 
6ome  flowers,  still  quite  fresh,  lying  upon  a  table,  laid 
down  by  little  hands.  Gone  !  There  is  something  sad 
in  it,  even  with  the  certainly  of  soon  meeting  again,— 
that  is,  so  fiir  as  there  is  certainty  in  this  world.  You 
can  imagine,  distantly,  what  it  would  be  if  the  little 
things  were  gone,  not  to  return.  21iat  is  the  Gone  con- 
summate. All  who  have  heard  it  know  the  unuttera- 
ble sadness  of  the  farewell  of  the  Highland  emigrant 
leaving  his  native  hills.  You  would  not  laugh  at  the 
bag])ipes,  if  you  heard  their  wild  wailing  tones,  blending 
with  brokt-n  voices  joining  in  that  Macriminon's  Lament, 
whose  per[)etual  refrain  is  just  the  statement  of  that  con- 
summate Gone.  I  shall  not  write  the  Gaelic  words,  be- 
cause you  could  not  pronounce  them  ;  but  the  refrain  is 
this :  We  return,  we  return,  we  return  no  more  !  Yes  ; 
Gone  for  ever  !  And  all  to  make  room  for  deer  !  There 
was  a  man  whose  little  boy  died.  The  father  bore  up 
wondt-rfully.  But  on  the  funeral  day,  after  the  little  child 
was  laid  lown  to  his  long  rest,  the  father  went  out  to 
walk  in  the  garden.  There,  in  a  corner,  was  the  small 
wheelbarrow  with  its  wooden  spade  ;  and  the  foot-prints 
in  the  earth  left  by  the  little  feet  that  were  gone  !  You 
do  not  think  the  less  of  the  stronnr  man  that  at  tlie  sight 


J  00  GONE. 

he  wept  aloud  :  wept,  as  Some  One  Else  had  wept  be- 
fore him.  You  may  remember  that  little  poem  of  Long- 
followV,  ill  whicli  he  tells  of  a  man,  still  young,  who  once 
had  a  wife  and  child :  but  wife  and  child  were  dead. 
There  is  no  pathos  like  that  of  homely  fact,  which  we 
may  witness  every  day.  They  were  gone  ;  and  after 
tiiose  years  in  their  company,  lie  was  left  alone.  lie 
walked  about  the  world,  with  no  one  to  care  for  him 
now,  as  they  had  cared.  The  life  with  thera  would 
seem  like  a  dream,  even  if  it  had  lasted  for  years.  And 
all  the  sadder  that  so  much  of  life  might  yet  have  to 
come.  I  do  not  mind  about  an  old  bachelor,  in  liis  sol- 
itary room.  I  think  of  the  kind-hearted  man,  sitting  in 
the  evening  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside:  once,  when  he 
sat  down  there,  little  paltering  feet  were  about  him  and 
their  little  owners  climbed  u[)on  his  knee.  Now,  he 
may  sit  long  enough,  and  no  one  will  interrupt  him. 
He  may  read  his  newspai)er  undisturbed.  He  may 
write  his  sermon,  and  no  sly  knock  come  to  the  door  : 
no  little  dog  walk  in,  with  much  barking  quite  unlike 
that  of  common  dogs,  and  ask  for  a  penny.  Gone  !  I 
remember,  long  ago,  reading  a  poem  called  the  Scot' 
tish  Widoio's  Lament,  written  by  some  nameless  poet. 
The  widow  had  a  husljand  and  two  little  children,  but 
one  bleak  winter  ilicy  all  went  together:  — 

I  ettle  wliiles  to  spin, 

I5ut  wee,  wee  patterin'  feet, 
Come  ruiuiin'  out  and  in, 

And  tlien  I  just  maun  greet. 
I  ken  it's  I'anc-y  a' 

And  faster  flows  tliR  tear, 
That  my  a'  dwi:ied  awa', 

Sm'  tlie  fa'  o'  the  year. 

Tou   have   said    good-bye   to   a    dear  friend  who    ha^ 


GONE.  101 

Stayed  a  few  days  with  you,  and  whom  you  will  not  see 
again  for  long :  and  you  have,  for  a  while,  felt  the  liouse 
very  blank  without  hiin.  Did  you  ever  think  how  the 
house  would  seem,  without  yourself?  Have  you  fancied 
yourself  gone  ;  and  the  place,  blank  of  that  figure  you 
know  ?  When  I  am  gone  ;  let  us  not  say  these  words 
unless  seriously  ;  they  express  what  is,  to  each  of  us 
the  most  serious  of  all  facts.  The  May  Queen  has  few 
lines  which  touch  me  more  than  tliese  :  — 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  tliouglit  of  you  and  Effie  dear; 
I  saw  you  silting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here. 

Lord  JNIacaulay,  a  few  years  before  he  died,  had  some- 
thing presented  to  him  at  a  great  public  meeting  in  Scot- 
land ;  something  w'hich  pleased  him  much.  ''  I  shall 
treasure  it,"  he  said,  "  as  long  as  I  live ;  and  after  I 
am  gone "  —  There  the  great  man's  voice  faltered,  and 
the  sentence  remained  unfinished.  Yet  tlie  thought  at 
which  Macaulay  broke  down,  may  touch  many  a  lesser 
man  more.  For  when  we  are  gone,  ni}'^  friends,  we  may 
leave  behind  us  tliose  who  cannot  well  spare  us.  It  is 
not  for  one's  own  sake,  that  the  Gone,  so  linked  with 
one's  own  name,  touches  so  much.  We  have  had  enough 
of  this  world  before  very  long ;  and  (as  Uncle  Tom  ex- 
pressed it)  "  heaven  is  better  than  Kentuck."  But  we 
can  think  of  some,  for  whose  sake  we  may  wish  to  put 
off  our  going  as  long  as  may  be.  "  Our  minister,"  said  a 
Scotch  rustic,  "  aye  preaches  aboot  goin'  to  heaven  ;  but 
he'll  never  go  to  heaven  as  long  as  he  can  get  stoppin' 
at  Drumsleekie." 

No  doubt,  that  fit  of  toothache  may  be  gone  ;  or  that 
unwelcome   guest    who    stayed    with    you    three    weeks 


102  GONE. 

whether  you  would  or  not;  as  well  as  the  thing  or  the 
friend  you  most  value.  And  there  is  the  auct  oneer'a 
Going,  going,  as  well  as  this  July  sun  going  down  in 
glory.  But  1  defy  you  to  vulgarize  the  word.  Tue 
water  which  makes  the  Atlantic  will  always  be  a  sub- 
lime sight,  though  you  may  have  a  little  of  it  in  a  dirty 
puddle.  And  though  the  stupid  bore  who  comes  whei 
you  are  busy,  and  wastes  your  time,  may  tell  you  when 
you  happily  get  rid  of  him,  that  he  will  often  come  back 
again  to  see  you  (ignorant  that  30U  instantly  direct  your 
servant  never  to  admit  him  more),  even  that  cannot  ue- 
tract  from  the  beauty  of  Mr.  Tennyson's  lines,  in  which 
the  dying  girl,  as  she  is  going,  tells  her  mother  that 
after  she  is  gone,  she  will  (if  it  may  be)  often  come 
back  :  — 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place; 
Tliough  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  1  shall  look  upon  your  face; 
Though  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you  say, 
Aod  be  often,  often  with  you,  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 


t 


CHAPTER  V. 

CONCERNING  PEOPLE  OF  WHOM  MORE  MIGHT 
HAVE  BEEN  MADE. 


^^SV.y--'^-^  T  is  recorded  in  history  that  at  a  cortain  pub- 
/;>|^lM^M  lie  diniior  in  America  a  Methodist  preacher 
l-^)-B^»^^  was  called  on  to  give  a  toast.  It  may  be 
?<^^ae^MO  supposed  that  the  evening  was  so  far  ad- 
vanced, that  every  person  present  had  been  toasted 
already,  and  also  all  the  friends  of  every  one  present. 
It  thus  happened  that  the  Methodist  preacher  was  in 
considerable  perplexity  as  to  the  question,  what  being, 
or  class  of  beings,  should  form  the  subject  of  his  toast. 
But  the  good  man  was  a  person  of  large  sympathies  ; 
and  some  happy  link  of  association  recalled  to  his  mind 
certain  words  with  which  he  had  a  professional  familiar- 
ity, and  which  set  forth  a  subject  of  a  most  comprehen- 
Bive  character.  Arising  from  his  seat,  the  Metliodist 
preacher  said  that,  without  troubling  the  assembled  com- 
pany with  any  preliminary  observations,  he  begged  to 
propose  the  health  of  All   people  that   on   Earth 

DO    DWELL. 

Not  unnaturally,  I  have  thought  of  that  Methodist 
preacher  and  his  toast  as  I  begin  to  write  this  essay. 
For  though  its  subject  was  suggested  to  me  by  various 
little  things  of  very  small  concern  to  mankind  in  general, 
though  of  great  interest  to  one  or  two  individual  beings^ 


104  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  OF   WHOM 

I  now  (liscfM-n  tliat  the  subject  of  tliis  essay  is  in  trutli  as 
comprehensive  as  the  subject  of  tiiat  toast.  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  CoiicerniiKj  People  of  whom  More  m'ifjhl  have 
been  Made:  I  see  now  that  the  class  which  1  iiave  named 
includes  every  human  being.  More  might  have  been 
made,  in  sorae  respect,  possibly  in  many  respects,  of^  All 
people  that  on  earth  do  dwell.  Piiysically,  intellectually, 
morally,  spiritually,  more  might  have  been  made  of  all. 
"Wise  and  diligent  training  on  the  part  of  others  ;  self- 
denial,  industr}',  tact,  decision,  promptitude,  on  the  part  of 
the  man  himself;  might  have  made  something  far  better 
than  he  now  is  of  every  man  tliat  breathes.  No  one  is 
made  the  most  of.  There  have  been  human  beings  who 
have  been  made  the  most  of  as  regards  some  one  thing  ; 
who  have  had  some  single  power  developed  to  the  utmost; 
but  no  one  is  made  the  most  of,  all  round;  no  one  is  even 
made  the  most  of  as  i-egards  the  two  or  three  most  impor- 
tant things  of  all.  And  indeed  it  is  curious  to  observe 
that  the  things  in  which  human  beings  seem  to  have  at- 
tained to  absolute  perfection,  have  for  the  most  part  been 
things  comparatively  frivolous  ;  accom[)lishments  which 
certainly  were  not  worlli  the  labor  and  tlie  time  which  it 
must  have  cost  to  master  liiem.  Tims,  M.  Blondin  has 
probably  made  as  much  of  himself  as  can  be  made  of 
mortal,  in  tlie  respect  of  walkinir  on  a  rope  stretched  at  a 
great  height  from  the  ground.  Ilazlitt  makes  mention  of 
a  man  who  had  cultivated  to  the  very  highest  degree  the 
art  of  playing  at  rackets  ;  and  who  accordingly  played 
at  rackets  incomparably  better  than  any  one  else  ever 
did.  A  wealthy  gentleman,  lately  deceased,  by  putting 
bis  whole  mind  to  the  pursuit,  esteemed  himself  to  have 
reached  entire  perfection  in  the  matter  of  killing  otters. 
Various  individuals  have  probably  developed  the  power 


MORE  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN    MADE.  105 

of  turning  somersets,  of  picking  pockets,  of  pkiying  on 
the  piano,  jew's-Iiarp,  banjo,  and  penny  trumpet,  of  men- 
tal calcnlation  in  arithmetic,  of  in>iiuiating  evil  about 
their  neighbors  without  directly  asserting  anything,  —  to 
a  measure  as  great  as  is  possible  to  man.  Long  practice 
and  great  concentration  of  mind  upon  these  things,  have 
sufficed  to  produce  what  might  seem  to  tremble  on  the 
verge  of  perfection  :  what  unquestionably  leaves  the  at- 
tainments of  ordinary  people  at  an  inconceivable  distance 
behind.  But  I  do  not  call  it  making  the  most  of  a  man, 
to  develop,  even  to  perfection,  the  power  of  turning  som- 
ersets and  playing  at  rackets.  I  call  it  making  the  most 
of  a  man,  when  you  make  the  best  of  his  best  powers 
and  qualities ;  when  you  take  those  things  about  him 
which  are  the  worthiest  and  most  admirable,  and  culti- 
vate these  up  to  their  highest  attainable  degree.  And  it 
is  in  this  sense  that  the  statement  is  to  be  understood, 
that  no  one  is  made  the  most  of.  Even  in  the  best,  we 
see  no  more  than  the  rudiments  of  good  qualities  which 
might  have  been  developed  into  a  great  deal  more  ;  and 
in  very  many  human  beings,  pi'oper  management  might 
have  brought  out  qualities  essentially  different  from  those 
which  these  beings  now  possess.  It  is  not  merely  that 
they  are  rough  diamonds,  which  might  have  been  jjoI- 
ished  into  blazing  ones;  not  merely  that  they  are  thor- 
oughbred colts  drawing  coal-carts,  which  with  fiiir  train- 
ing would  have  been  new  Eclipses :  it  is  that  they  are 
vinegar  which  might  have  been  wine,  poison  which  miglit 
have  been  food,  wild-cats  which  might  have  been  harmless 
lambs,  soured  miserable  wretches  who  might  have  been 
hap|)y  and  useful,  almost  devils  who  might  have  been  but 
a  little  lower  than  the  angels.  Oh  the  unutterable  sad- 
ness that  is  in  the  thouo;ht  of  what  might  have  been ! 


106  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  OF  WHOM 

Not  always,  indeed.  Sometimes,  as  we  look  back,  it 
is  with  deep  tliaiikfuliiess  thut  we  see  the  point  at  which 
we  were  (we  cannot  say  how)  inclined  to  take  the  right 
turning,  when  we  were  ail  but  resolved  to  take  that  which 
we  can  now  see  would  have  landed  us  in  wreck  and  ruin. 
And  it  is  fit  that  we  should  correct  any  morbid  tendency 
to  brood  upon  the  fancy  of  how  much  better  we  might 
have  been,  by  remembering  also  how  much  worse  we 
might  have  been.  Sometimes  the  present  state  of  mat- 
ters, good  or  bad,  is  the  result  of  long  training  ;  of  influ- 
ences that  were  at  work  through  many  years ;  and  that 
produced  their  ett'ect  so  gradually  that  we  never  remarked 
the  steps  of  the  process,  till  some  day  we  waken  up  to  a 
sense  of  the  fact,  and  find  ourselves  perhaps  a  great  deal 
better,  probably  a  gx'cat  deal  worse,  than  we  had  been 
vaguely  imagining.  But  the  case  is  not  unfrequently 
otherwise.  Sometimes  one  testing  time  decided  whether 
we  should  go  to  the  left  or  to  the  right.  There  are  in 
the  moral  world  things  analogous  to  the  sudden  acci- 
dent which  makes  a  man  blind  or  lame  for  life :  in  an 
insUmt  there  is  wrought  a  })erinanent  deterioration.  Per- 
haps a  few  minutes  before  man  or  woman  took  the  step 
which  can  never  be  retraced,  which  must  banish  them 
forever  from  all  they  hold  dear,  and  compel  them  to 
seek  in  some  new  country  far  away  a  place  where  to 
hide  their  shame  and  misery,  they  had  just  as  little 
thought  of  taking  that  miserable  step  as  you,  my  reader, 
have  of  taking  one  like  it.  And  perhaps  there  are 
human  beings  in  this  world,  held  in  the  highest  esteem, 
and  with  not  a  speck  on  their  snow-white  reputation, 
wl.o  know  within  themselves  that  they  have  barely  es- 
caped the  gulf;  that  the  moment  has  been  in  which  all 
their  future  lot  was  trembling  in  tlie  balance  ;  and  that 


MORE  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  MADE.  107 

a  grain's  weight  more  in  the  scale  of  evil,  and  by  this 
lime  they  might  have  been  reckoned  among  the  most  de- 
graded and  abandoned  ot"  the  lace.  But  probably  the 
first  deviation,  either  to  right  or  left,  is  in  most  cases  a 
\ery  small  one.  You  know,  my  friend,  what  is  meant 
by  the  points  upon  a  railway.  By  moving  a  lever,  the 
rails  upon  which  the  train  is  advancing  are,  at  a  certain 
place,  broadened  or  narrowed  by  about  the  eighth  of  an 
inch.  That  little  movement  decides  whether  the  train 
shall  go  north  or  south.  Twenty  carriages  have  come  so 
far  together;  but  here  is  a  junction  station,  and  the  train 
is  to  be  divided.  The  first  ten  carriages  deviate  from  the 
main  line  by  a  fraction  of  an  inch  at  first ;  but  in  a  few 
minutes  the  two  portions  of  the  train  are  flying  on,  miles 
apart.  You  cannot  see  the  one  fi*om  the  other,  save  by 
distant  puffs  of  white  steam  through  the  clumps  of  trees. 
Perhaps  already  a  high  hill  has  intervened,  and  each 
train  is  on  its  solitary  way  —  one  to  end  its  course,  after 
some  hours,  araid  the  roar  and  smoke  and  bare  ugliness 
of  some  huge  manufacturing  town ;  and  the  other  to 
come  through  green  fields  to  the  quaint,  quiet,  dreamy- 
looking  little  city,  whose  place  is  marked,  across  the 
plain,  by  the  noble  spire  of  the  gray  cathedral  rising  into 
the  summer  blue.  We  come  to  such  points  in  our  jour- 
ney through  life :  railway-points  (as  it  were),  which  de- 
cide not  merely  our  lot  in  life,  but  even  what  kind  of 
folk  we  shall  be,  morally  and  intellectually.  A  hair's- 
breadth  may  make  the  deviation  at  first.  Two  situations 
are  offered  you  at  once  :  you  think  there  is  hardly  any- 
thing to  choose  between  them.  It  does  not  matter  which 
you  accept ;  and  perhaps  some  slight  and  fanciful  con- 
gideration  is  allowed  to  turn  the  scale.  But  now  you 
look  back,  and  you  can  see  that  there  was  the   turning* 


108  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  OF   WEIOM 

point  ill  your  life  ;  it  was  because  you  went  there  (o  the 
rigiit,  and  not  to  tlie  left,  that  you  are  now  a  great  Eiig- 
li-ii  prehite  and  not  a  humble  Scotcii  professor.  Was  there 
not  a  time  in  a  certain  great  man's  life,  at  which  the  lines 
of  rail  diverged,  and  at  which  the  question  was  settled, 
should  he  be  a  minister  of  the  Scotch  Kirk,  or  should  he 
be  Lord  High  Chancellor  of  Great  Britain  ?  I  can  im- 
agine a  stage  in  the  history  of  a  lad  in  a  counting-house, 
at  which  the  little  angle  of  rail  may  be  pushed  in  or 
pushed  back  that  shall  send  the  train  to  one  of  two  places 
five  hundred  miles  asunder  ;  it  may  depend  upon  whether 
he  shall  take  or  not  take  that  half-crown,  wlufther,  thirty 
years  after,  he  shall  be  taking  the  chair,  a  rubicund  bar- 
onet, at  a  missionary  society  meeting,  and  receive  the 
commendations  of  philanthropic  peers  and  earnest  bish- 
ops ;  or  be  laboring  in  chains  at  Norfolk  Island,  a  bru- 
talized, cursing,  hardened,  scourge-scarred,  despairing 
wretch,  without  a  hope  for  this  life  or  the  other.  Oh, 
how  much  may  turn  upon  a  little  thing  !  Because  the 
railway  train  in  which  you  were  coming  to  a  certain 
place  was  stopped  by  a  snow-storm,  the  whole  character 
of  your  life  may  have  been  changed.  Because  some 
one  was  in  the  drawing-room  when  you  went  to  see  Miss 
Smith  on  a  certain  day,  resolved  to  put  to  her  a  certain 
question,  you  missed  the  tide,  you  lost  3'our  chance,  you 
went  away  to  Australia  and  never  saw  her  more.  It 
fell  upon  a  day  that  a  ship,  coining  from  Melbourne,  was 
weathering  a  rocky  point  on  an  iron-bound  coast,  and 
was  driven  close  upon  that  perilous  shore.  They  tried 
to  put  her  about ;  it  was  the  last  chance.  It  was  a  mo- 
ment of  awful  risk  and  decision.  If  the  wind  catches 
the  sails,  now  shivering  as  the  ship  comes  up,  on  the 
right  side,   then    all   on   board    are    safe.       If   the    wind 


MORE  MIGHT   HAVE   BEEN    MADE.  109 

catches  the  sails  on  the  other  side,  then  all  on  board 
must  perish.  And  so  it  all  depends  upon  which  sur- 
face of  certain  square  yards  of  canvas  the  uncertain 
breeze  shall  strike,  Avhetlier  John  Smith,  who  is  coming 
home  from  the  diggings  with  twenty  thousand  pounds,  shall 
go  down  and  never  be  heard  of  again  by  his  poor  mother 
and  sisters  away  in  Scotland  ;  or  whether  he  shall  get 
safely  back,  a  rich  man,  to  gladden  their  hearts,  and  buy 
a  ])retty  little  place,  and  improve  the  house  on  it  into  the 
pleasantest  picture  ;  and  purchase,  and  ride,  and  drive  va- 
rious horses  ;  and  be  seen  on  market  days  sauntering  in 
the  High-street  of  the  county  town  ;  and  get  married,  and 
run  about  the  lawn  before  his  door,  chasing  his  little  chil- 
dren; and  become  a  decent  elder  of  the  Clnn-ch  ;  and  live 
quietly  and  hap[)ily  for  many  years.  Yes  :  from  what  pre- 
cise point  of  the  compass  the  next  flaw  of  wind  should  come, 
woukl  decide  the  question  between  the  long  homely  life  in 
Scotland,  and  a  nameless  burial  deep  in  a  foreign  sea. 

It  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  main  characteristics  of 
human  beings,  not  that  they  actually  are  much,  but  that 
they  are  something  of  which  mucli  may  be  made.  There 
are  untold  potentialities  in  iuiinan  nature.  The  tree  cut 
down,  concerning  which  its  heatlicn  owner  debated  wlielh- 
er  he  should  make  it  into  a  god  or  into  a  three-legged 
stool,  was  positively  nothing  in  its  capacity  of  coming  to 
different  ends  and  developments,  when  we  compare  it  with 
each  human  being  born  into  this  world.  JNIan  is  not  so 
much  a  thing  already,  as  he  is  the  germ  of  something.  lie 
is  (so  to  speak)  material  formed  to  the  hand  of  circumstan- 
ces. He  is  essentially  a  germ,  either  of  good  or  evil. 
And  he  is  not  like  the  seed  of  a  plant,  in  whose  develop- 
ment the  tether  allows  no  wider  range  tiian  that  betwei-n 
the  more  or  less  successful   manifestation  of  its   inherent 


J  10  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  OF  WHOM 

nature.  Give  a  younj:;  tree  fair  play :  good  soil  and 
abundant  air;  tend  it  carofblly,  in  short,  and  yop  will 
have  a  nohle  tree.  Treat  the  young  tree  unfairly  :  give 
it  a  bad  soil,  deprive  it  of  noeilful  air  and  light,  and  it 
will  grow  up  a  stunted  and  poor  tree.  But  in  the  case 
of  the  human  being,  then;  is  more  than  this  difference  in 
degree.  There  may  be  a  difference  in  kind.  The  human 
being  may  grow  up  to  be  (as  it  were)  a  fair  and  healthful 
fruit  tree»  or  to  be  a  ])oi>onoiis  one.  There  is  sometliing 
positively  awful  about  tlie  potentialities  ihat  are  in  human 
nature.  The  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  might  have 
grown  up  under  influences  which  would  have  made  him  a 
bloodthirsty  pirate  or  a  sneaking  pickpocket.  The  pirate 
or  the  pickpocket,  taken  at  the  right  time,  and  trained  in 
the  right  way,  might  have  been  made  a  pious  exemplai-y 
man.  You  remember  that  good  divine,  two  hundred 
years  since,  who,  standing  in  the  market-place  of  a  cer- 
tain town,  and  seeing  a  poor  wretch  led  by  him  to  the 
gallows,  said,  "  There  goes  myself,  l)Ut  for  the  grace  of 
God."  Of  course,  it  is  needful  tliat  human  laws  sliould 
hold  all  men  as  equally  respon>iI>le.  The  [)unishment  of 
such  an  offence  is  such  an  infliction,  no  matter  who  com- 
mitted the  offence.  At  least  the  mitigating  circumstan- 
ces which  human  laws  can  take  into  account  must  be  all 
of  a  very  plain  and  intelligible  character.  It  would  net 
do  to  recognize  anything  like  a  graduated  scale  of  respon- 
sibility. A  very  bad  training  in  youth  would  be  in  a 
certain  limited  sense  regarded  as  lessening  the  guilt  of 
any  wrong  thing  done  ;  and  you  may  retnember  accord- 
ingly how  that  magnanimous  monarch,  Charles  II.,  urged 
to  the  Scotch  lords,  in  extenuation  of  the  wrong  things 
he  had  done,  that  his  father  had  given  him  a  very  bad 
education.     But   though   human    laws   and  judges    may 


MORE  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  MADE.  Ill 

cainly  and  clumsily  endeavor  to  fix  each  wrong-doer'a 
place  in  the  scale  of  re>pon3ibiIity  ;  and  tliough  they  must, 
in  a  rough  way,  do  what  is  rough  ju-tice  in  five  ca>es  out  of 
six;  still  we  may  well  believe  that  in  the  view  of  the  Su- 
preme Judge  the  responsibilities  of  men  are  most  delicati-ly 
graduated  to  their  oppoituniiies.  Tliere  is  One  who  will 
appreciate  with  entire  accuracy  the  amount  of  guilt  that  is 
in  each  wrong  deed  of  each  wrongdoer,  and  mercifully  al- 
low for  such  as  never  hail  a  chance  of  being  anything  but 
wrongdoers.  And  it  will  not  matter  whether  it  was  from 
original  constitution  or  from  unha]ipy  training  that  these 
poor  creatures  never  had  that  chance.  I  was  lately  quite 
astonished  to  learn  that  some  sincere  but  stupid  American 
divines  have  fallen  foul  of  the  eloquent  author  of  Elsie 
Fewner,  and  accused  him  of  fearful  heresy,  because  he  de- 
clared his  confident  belief  that  "  God  would  never  make 
a  man  with  a  crooked  spine  and  then  punish  him  for  not 
standing  ui)right."  Why,  that  statement  of  the  Autocrai 
appears  to  me  at  least  as  certain  as  that  two  and  two 
make  four.  It  may  indeed  contain  some  recondite  and 
malignant  reference  which  the  stupid  American  divines 
know,  and  which  I  do  not :  it  may  be  a  mystic  Shil)boleth 
indicating  far  more  than  it  asserts  ;  as  at  one  time  in 
Scotland  it  was  esteemed  as  proof  that  a  clergyman 
preached  unsound  doctrine  if  he  made  use  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer.  But,  understanding  it  simply  as  meaning  that 
the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  will  do  right,  it  appears  to 
me  an  axiom  beyond  all  question.  And  I  take  it  as 
putting  in  a  compact  form  the  spirit  of  what  I  have  been 
arguing  for  —  to  wit,  that  though  human  law  must  of 
necessity  hold  all  rational  beings  as  alike  responsible,  yet 
in  the  eye  of  God  the  difference  may  be  immense.  The 
graceful  vase  that  stands  in  the  drawing-room  under  » 


112  CONCERNING   PEOPLE  OF  WHOM 

glass  shade,  and  never  goes  to  the  well,  has  no  great 
right  to  despise  the  rough  pitcher  that  goes  often  and 
is  broken  at  last.  It  is  fearful  to  think  what  malleable 
matciial  we  are  in  the  hands  of  circumstances.  And  a 
certain  Authority,  considerably  wiser  and  incomparably 
more  charitable  than  the  American  divines  already  men- 
tioned, has  recognized  the  fact  when  lie  taught  us  to 
pray,  "  Lead  us  not  into  temptation!"  We  shall  thiidc, 
in  a  little  while,  of  certain  influences  which  may  make 
or  mar  the  human  being  ;  but  it  may  be  said  here,  that 
I  firmly  believe  that  happiness  is  one  of  the  best  of 
disciplines.  As  a  general  rule,  if  people  were  happier, 
they  would  be  better.  When  you  see  a  poor  cabman 
on  a  winter  day,  soaked  with  rain,  and  fevered  with 
gin,  violently  thrashing  the  wretched  horse  he  is  driving, 
and  perhaps  howling  at  it,  you  may  be  sure  that  it  is 
just  because  the  poor  cabman  is  so  miserable  that  he  is 
doing  all  that.  It  is  a  sudilen  glimpse,  perhaps,  of  his 
bare  home  and  hungry  children,  and  of  the  drenry  fu- 
ture whicii  lies  before  hiin>eU'  ami  them,  that  was  tiie 
true  cause  of  those  two  or  three  furious  lashes  you  saw 
him  deal  upon  the  unliaj)py  screw's  ribs.  Whenever  I 
read  any  article  in  a  leview,  which  is  manifestly  ma- 
lignant, and  intended  not  to  improve  an  author  but  to 
give  him  pain,  I  cannot  help  immediately  wondering 
what  may  have  been  the  matter  with  the  man  who  wrote 
the  malignant  article.  Something  must  have  be(;n  mak- 
ing him  \L'vy  unhappy,  I  think.  I  do  not  allude  to 
2)laylul  attacks  upon  a  man,  made  in  pure  tli(iu;:iitless- 
ness  and  buoyancy  of  spirit  ;  but  to  attacks  which  indi- 
cate a  settled,  delil)ei-ate,  calculaling  i-aiieor.  Never  be 
angry  with  the  man  who  makes  such  an  attack  ;  you 
ought  to  be  sorry  for  him.     It    is  out  of  great  misery 


MORE  MIGHT   HAVE  BEEX  MADE.  113 

(hat  lualigjiity  for  the  most  part  proceeds.  To  give  the 
ordinary  mortal  a  fair  chance,  let  him  be  reasonably 
successful  and  happy.  Do  not  worry  a  man  into  nerv- 
ous irritability,  and  he  will  be  amiable.  Do  not  dip  a 
man  in  water,  and  he  will  not  be  wet. 

Of  course,  my  friend,  I  I<now  who  is  to  yon  the  most 
interesting  of  all  beings  ;  and  whose  history  is  the  most 
interesting  of  all  histories.  You  are  to  yourself  the  cen- 
tre of  this  world,  and  of  all  the  interests  of  this  world. 
And  this  is  quite  right.  There  is  no  selfishness  about  all 
this,  except  that  selfishness  which  forms  an  essential  ele- 
jnent  in  personality  ;  that  selfishness  whicii  must  go  with 
the  fact  of  one's  having  a  self.  You  cannot  help  looking 
at  all  things  as  they  appear  from  your  own  point  of  view  ; 
and  things  press  tliemselves  upon  your  attention  and  your 
feeling  as  tiiey  afiTect  yourself.  And  apart  IVom  anything 
like  egotism,  or  like  vain  sidf-conceit,  it  is  probable  that 
yon  may  know  that  a  great  deal  depends  upon  your  exer- 
tion and  your  life.  There  are  those  at  home  who  would 
farii  but  i)oorly  it'  you  were  just  now  to  die.  There  are 
those  who  must  rise  with  you  if  you  rise,  and  sink  with 
you  if  you  sink.  Does  it  sometimes  suddenly  strike  you, 
what  a  little  obj(;ct  you  are,  to  have  so  much  depending 
on  you  ?  Vaguely,  in  your  thinking  and  fVeling,  30n  add 
your  circumstances  and  your  lot  to  your  pci-sonality  ;  and 
these  make  up  an  oliject  of  considerable  extension.  You 
do  so  with  other  people  as  w(dl  as  with  yourself  You 
have  all  tin'ir  belongings  as  a  backL'nuind  to  the  picture 
ot  tiiem  whiili  you  have  in  your  mind  ;  and  they  look 
very  little  when  you  see  them  in  fact,  because  you  see 
them  witliout  these  Ixdongings.  I  remember  wluti  a 
boy,  how  disapjiointed  I  was  at  first  seeing  the  Arch- 
bishop   of    Canterbury.       Ii    was    Archbishop     fclowley. 


114  COXCEiJNING  PEOPLE  OF  Vv'IIOJI 

There  lie  wn«,  a  sleinlor  jmle  oM  freiitleniiin,  "sitting  in 
iui  ariu-cliair  at  a  public  meeting.  I  was  cliiefl)-  disap- 
poiiiU'd,  lu'caiise  llicn;  wns  so  Utile  of  hiin.  Tiiere  was^ 
just  llie  human  beiiiji.  There  was  no  background  of 
grand  accessories.  The  idea  of  the  Primate  of  Eng- 
land which  I  liad  in  some  confused  manner  in  my  mind, 
included  a  vision  of  the  venerable  towers  of  Lambeth,  — 
of  a  long  array  of  solemn  predecessors,  from  Tiiomas 
A'Becket  downwards.  —  of  great  historical  occasions  on 
which  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  had  been  a  promi- 
nent figure  ;  and  in  some  way  I  fancied,  vaguely,  that 
you  would  see  tiie  primale  surrounded  by  all  these 
things.  You  remember  the  highlander  in  Wuverleij  who 
was  much  mortifieil  when  his  chief  came  to  meet  an 
ICnglish  guest,  unattended  by  any  retinue  ;  and  who  ex- 
claimed in  consternation  and  sorrow,  "  He  has  come 
wiihoiit  his  tail  !  "  Even  such  was  my  early  feeling. 
You  iiiidcrstand.  later,  that  associations  are  not  visible  ; 
and  that  they  do  not  add  to  a  man's  extension  in  space. 
l>ut  (to  go  back)  you  do,  as  regards  yoursfdf,  what 
you  do  as  regards  greater  men  ;  you  add  your  lot  to 
your  personalit}',  and  thus  you  make  up  a  bigger  ob- 
ject. And  when  you  see  yourself  in  your  tailor's  shop, 
in  a  large  mirror  (one  of  a  series)  wherein  you  see  your 
figure  all  i-ound.  reflected  several  times,  your  feeling  will 
piol)ably  be,  what  a  little  thing  you  are  !  If  you  are  a 
wise  man,  you  will  go  away  somewhat  humbled,  and  pos- 
sibly somewhat  the  better  for  the  sight.  You  have,  to  a 
certain  extent,  done  what  Burns  thought  it  would  do  all 
men  much  good  to  do;  you  iiave  "seen  yourself  as  others 
see  you."  And  even  to  do  so  physically,  is  a  step  towards 
a  juster  and  humbler  estimate  of  yourself  in  more  impor- 
tant things.     It  mav  here  be  said  as  a  further  illustration 


MOKE  YAGBT  HAVE   BECN   :\rAL)E.  11.5 

oflho  principle  set  i'ortli.  that  people  who  stay  very  much 
at  home,  feel  their  stature,  bodily  and  mental,  much  les- 
sened when  they  go  I'ar  away  from  home,  and  spend  a 
little  time  among  strange  scenes  and  peoi)le.  For,  going 
thus  away  from  home,  you  take  only  yourself.  It  is  but 
a  small  part  of  your  extension  that  goes.  You  go  ;  but 
you  leave  behind  your  house,  your  study,  your  children, 
your  servants,  your  horses,  your  garden.  And  not  only 
do  you  leave  them  behind  ;  but  they  grow  misty  and  un- 
substantial when  you  are  far  away  from  them.  And 
somehow  you  feel  that  when  you  make  the  acquaintance 
of  a  new  friend  some  hundreds  of  miles  off,  wlio  never 
saw  your  home  and  your  family,  you  present  yourself  be- 
fore him,  only  a  tueiitieth  part  or  so  of  what  you  feci 
yourself  to  be  when  you  have  all  your  belongings  about 
you.  Do  you  not  feel  all  that  ?  And  do  you  not  feel, 
tiiat  if  you  were  to  go  away  to  Australia  for  ever,  almost 
as  the  English  coast  turned  blue  and  tlien  invisible  on  the 
horizon,  your  life  in  England  would  iirst  turn  cloud-like, 
and  tlien  melt  away  ? 

But  without  further  discussing  the  ])hiloso|)hy  of  how 
it  comes  to  be,  I  return  to  the  statement  that  you  your- 
self, as  you  live  in  your  home,  are  to  yourself  the  centre 
of  this  world  ;  and  that  you  feel  the  Ibrce  of  any  great 
j)rincii)le  most  deeply,  when  you  feel  it  in  your  own  case. 
And  though  every  worthy  mortal  mu-^t  be  often  taken  out 
of  himself,  especially  by  seeing  th(!  deep  sori'ows  and 
great  failures  of  other  men,  still,  in  thinking  oi"  people 
of  whom  more  might  have  been  made,  it  touches  you 
most  to  discern  that  you  are  one  of  these.  It  is  a  very 
sad  thing  to  tiiink  of  yourself,  and  to  see  how  much  more 
might  have  been  made  of  you.  Sit  down  .by  the  fire  in 
winter;  or  go  out  now  in  summer  and  sit  down  under  a 


11&  CONCERNING   TEOPI.E  OF   WHOM 

Iree  ;  and  look  back  on  the  moral  discipline  you  have 
gone  tliroiijxli ;  liok  back  on  what  you  have  done  and 
puffercil.  Oh  how  nmcli  bcltci-  and  liappier  you  might 
iiave  btten  !  And  how  xevy  m^ar  you  have  often  been  to 
what  would  have  made  you  so  much  liappier  and  better! 
If  you  had  taken  the  otiier  tuniing  when  you  took  the 
■wrong  one,  after  much  perplexity  ;  if  jou  had  refrained 
from  saying  such  a  hasty  word  ;  if  you  had  not  thought- 
lessly made  such  a  man  your  enemy  !  Such  a  little  thing 
may  have  changed  the  entire  complexion  of  your  life. 
Ah,  it  was  because  the  points  were  turned  the  wrong 
way  at  that  junction,  that  you  are  now  running  along  a 
line  of  railway  through  wild  moorlands,  leaving  the  warm 
champaign  below  ever  more  hopelessly  behind.  Hastily, 
or  peltedly,  or  despairingly,  you  took  the  wrong  turning  ; 
or  you  might  have  been  dwelling  now  amid  verdant  lields 
and  silver  waters  in  the  {'ount ry  of  contentment  and  suc- 
cess. Many  men  and  women,  in  the  temporary  bitterness 
of  some  di>appointinent,  have  lia>tily  made  marriages 
which  will  embitter  nil  their  future  life;  or  which  at  least 
make  it  certain  that  in  this  world  they  will  never  know 
a  joyous  heart  any  more.  I\leii  iiave  died  as  almost 
briefless  barristers,  toiling  into  old  age  in  heartless  wran- 
gling, who  had  their  chance  of  high  places  on  the  bench  ; 
but  ambitiously  resolved  to  wait  for  something  higher; 
and  so  missed  the  tide.  Men  in  the  church  luive  taken 
the  wrong  path  at  some  critical  time;  and  doomed  them- 
selves to  all  the  pangs  of  disappointed  ambition.  But  I 
think  a  sincere  man  in  the  church  has  a  great  advantage 
over  almost  all  ordinary  disappointed  men.  He  has  less 
temptation,  reading  alfairs  by  the  light  of  after-time,  to 
look  back  with  bitterness  on  any  mistake  he  may  have 
made.     For  if  he  be  the  man  I  mean,  he  took  the  dec)- 


MORE   MlCrUT   HAVE  BEEN  MADE.  117 

sive  stej)  not  without  >eeking  the  best  of  guidance  ;  and 
the  whole  training  of  his  mind  has  fitted  him  for  seeing  a 
higher  Hand  in  the  allotment  of  human  conditions.  And 
if  a  man  acted  ibr  the  best,  according  to  the  light  he  had; 
and  if  he  truly  believes  that  God  puts  all  in  their  places 
in  life:  he  may  look  back  without  bitterness  upon  wiiat 
may  appear  the  most  grievous  mistakes.  I  must  be  suf- 
fered to  add,  that  if  he  is  able  heartily  to  hold  certain 
great  trutlis,  and  to  I'est  on  certain  sui-(^  promises,  hardly 
any  conceivable  earthly  lot  should  stamp  him  a  soured 
or  disappointed  man.  If  it  be  a  sober  truth,  that  ''  all 
things  shall  work  together  for  good  "  to  a  certain  order 
of  mankind  ;  and  if  the  deepest  sorrows  in  this  world 
may  serve  to  prepare  us  for  a  better  ;  why,  then,  I  think 
that  one  might  hold  by  a  certain  ancient  [)hilosopher  (and 
sometldng  more),  who  said  "I  have  learned,  in  whatso- 
ever state  I  am,  therewith  to  be  content  !  " 

You  see,  reader,  that  in  thinking  of  People  of  \vliom 
more  might  have  been  made,  we  are  limiting  the  scope  of 
the  subject.  I  am  not  thinking  how  more  might  have 
been  made  of  us  originally.  No  doubt  the  potter  had 
power  over  the  clay.  Give  a  larg<n-  brain,  of  finer  qual- 
ity, and  the  commonplace  man  might  have  been  a  INIilton. 
A  little  change  iu  the  chemical  composition  of  tlu;  gray 
matter  of  that  little  organ  which  is  unquestionably  con- 
nected with  the  mind's  working  as  no  other  organ  of  tli<! 
body  is,  and  oh,  what  a  ditli'rent  order  of  thought  would 
have  rolled  oif  from  your  pen  when  you  sat  dowu  and 
tried  to  write  your  best !  If  we  are  to  believe  Rol)c  it 
Burns,  some  people  have  been  inailc  more  of  than  was 
originally  intended.  A  certain  poem  recoi'ds  how  tiiat 
which,  in  his  honiely  phrase,  he  calls  "  stutF  to  mak'  a 


J 18  CONCEKNrXG   PEOPLE  OV   WHOM 

swine,"  was  ultimately  converted  into  a  very  poor  speci* 
men  of  a  human  bein;^^.  Tlie  poet  had  no  irr<;v(;rent 
intention,  I  dare  -ay  ;  but  I  am  not  about  to  go  into  the 
held  of  speculation  wliicli  is  o|)ened  up  by  his  words.  I 
know  imleed  that  in  tiie  hands  of  tlie  Creator  each  of  us 
might  have  been  made  a  different  man.  The  pounds  of 
material  which  were  ia-ihioncd  into  Shakespeare  might 
have  made  a  bumpkin  with  little  thought  beyond  pio-j 
and  turnips;  or,  by  some;  slight  difference  beyond  man's 
skill  to  trace,  might  iiave  made  an  idiot.  A  little  infu- 
sion of  energy  into  the  mental  constitution  might  have 
made  the  mild,  pensive  day-dreamer  who  is  wandering 
listlessly  by  the  river-side,  sometimes  chancing  upon 
noble  thoughts,  which  he  does  not  carry  out  into  action, 
and  iloes  not  even  write;  down  on  paper,  into  an  active 
worker,  with  Arnold's  keen  look,  wlio  would  have  carved 
out  a  great  career  for  himself,  and  exercised  a  real  influ- 
ence over  the  views  and  conduct  of  numbers  of  other 
men.  A  wry  little  alteration  in  feature  might  have 
made  a  plain  face  into  a  beautiful  one,  and  some  slight 
change  in  the  position  or  the  contractibility  of  certaifi 
of  the  muscles  might  Iiave  made  the  most  awkward  of 
manners  and  gaits  into  the  mo-t  dignified  and  graceful. 
All  l/uU  we  ail  imderstand.  But  my  present  suliject  is 
the  making  which  is  in  circumstances  after  our  natural 
disposition  is  fixed — the  training,  coming  from  a  hun- 
dred quartei's,  which  foi-rns  the  material  supplied  by 
nature  into  the  character  whirh  each  of  us  actually 
bears.  And  setting  apart  the  case  of  great  geniu'^, 
whose  bent  towards  the  thing  in  which  it  will  excel  is 
so  strong  that  it  will  find  its  own  field  by  ine\  italde  se- 
lection, and  wdiose  strength  is  such  that  no  unfavorable 
circumstances  can  hold  it  down,  almost  any  ordinary  hii- 


MORE   MIGHT    HAVE   BEEN    MADE.  119 

man  beiiij:;  m;iy  lie  fonned  into  almost  any  development, 
I  know  a  huge  inas>ive  beam  of  rough  iron,  which  sup- 
port.>  a  great  weigiit.     Wlienever  I  pass  it,  I  cannot  help 
giving  it  a  pat   witli   my   hand,  and   saying  to  it,  "Yon 
miglit  have  been  liair-springs  tor  watches."     I  kncv  an 
odd-looking  little  man  attached  to  a  certain  railway-sta- 
tion, whose  bu->iness  it  is  wiien  a  train   conies  in   to  go 
roinid   it  witli  a  large  box  of  a  yellow  concoction,   and 
supply  grea>e  to  the  wheels.      J    have  often  looked  out 
of  the  carriage-window  at  that  odd  little  man,  and  thought 
to  myself,  "Now  you  might  have  been  a  chief  justice." 
And  indeed    I  can   say  from    personal   obr-ervation,  that 
the  stuff'  ultimately  converted  into  cabinet  ministers  does 
not  at  an  early  stage  at  all  api)reciably  differ  from  that 
whicii  never  becomes  more  than  country  parsons.     There 
is  a  great  gidf  between    the   human   being  who  gratefully 
receives  a  shilling,  and   touches   iiis   cap  as  he  receives  it, 
and  the   iunnan   l)ciiig  whos('   income  is  \nud  in  yearly  or 
half-yeaily  sums,  and  to  whom  a  pecuniary  tip  would  ap- 
pear as  an  in.-ult ;  yet  of  course  that  great  gulf  is  the  result 
of  training  alone.     John   Smith   the   laborer,  with  twelve 
sliillings  a  week,  and  the  bishop  with  eight  thousand  a  year, 
had,  by  original   conslilulion,   precisely  the  same   kind  of 
feeling  towar<1s  that  much-sougiit  yet  much-abused  reality 
■which   ]irovides  the  means  of  life.      Who  sliall  reckon  u[» 
by  what  millions  of  sligiit   louclies   from   the  liand  of  cir- 
cumstance, extending  over  many  years,   the   one   man  is 
gradually  ibi-med   into   the   giving  of  the  shilling,  and  the 
other  man   into  the  receiving  of  it  with  that  touch  of  his 
hat?     Who    shall    read    back   tlie    forming   influences    at 
work  since;   the  days  in  the  cradle,  that  gradiudly  fbi-med 
one   man   into  sitting  down  to  dinner,  and   another  man 
into  waiting  behind  his  chair?     T  think  it  would  be  occa 


120  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  OF   WHOM 

sionally  a  cornfort  if  one  could  believe,  as  American 
planters  profess  to  believe  about  their  slaves,  tliat  there 
is  an  original  and  essential  difference  between  men  ;  foi 
truly  tlie  difference  in  tlieir  positions  is  often  so  tremen- 
dous that  it  is  painful  to  think  that  it  is  the  selfsame  clay 
and  the  selfsame  common  mind  tliat  are  promoted  to 
dignity  and  degraded  to  servitude.  And  if  you  some- 
times feel  that,  you  in  wliose  favor  the  arrangement  tends, 
wliat  do  you  suppose  your  servants  sometimes  think  upon 
tlie  subject?  It  was  no  wonder  that  tiie  millions  of  Rus- 
sia were  ready  to  grovel  before  their  Czar,  while  they 
believed  that  he  was  "an  euianaiiou  from  the  Deity." 
But  in  countries  where  it  is  (piite  understood  that  every 
man  is  just  as  much  an  emanation  from  the  Deity  as  any 
other,  you  will  not  long  have  that  sort  of  thing.  Yon 
remember  Goldsmitii's  noble  lines,  which  Di'.  Johnson 
never  could  read  without  tears,  concerning  the  English 
character.  It  is  not  true  that  it  is  just  because  the  hum- 
ble but  intelligent  Englishman  understands  distinctly  that 
we  are  all  of  us  people  of  whom  more  iniyJit  have  been 
made,  that  he  has  "  h^arnt  to  venerate  himself  as  man  !  " 
And,  thinking  of  inlhicnces  which  fljrm  the  character, 
there  is  a  sad  reflection  which  has  often  occurred  to  me. 
It  is,  that  circumstances  often  develop  a  character  which 
it  is  hard  to  contemplate  without  anger  and  disgust. 
And  yet  in  many  such  cases  it  is  rather  pity  that  is  due. 
The  more  disgusting  the  character  formed  in  some  men, 
die  more  you  should  pity  them.  Yet  it  is  hard  to  do 
that.  You  easily  pity  the  man  whom  circumstances  have 
made  poor  and  miserable  ;  how  much  more  you  should 
pity  the  man  whom  circumstances  have  made  bad.  You 
pity  the  man  from  whom  some  terrible  accident  has  taken 
a  limb  or  a  hand,-  but  how  mucii  more  should  you  pity 


MORE  MIGHT   HAVE  BEEN  MADE.  121 

the  man  from  whom  the  influences  of  years  have  taken 
a  conscience  and  a  heart  !  And  j^omething  is  to  be  said 
for  even  the  most  unamiahle  and  worst  of  the  race.  Ko 
doubt  it  is  mainly  their  own  fault  that  they  are  so  bad; 
but  still  it  is  hard  work  to  be  always  rowing  against  wind 
and  tide,  and  some  people  could  be  good  only  by  doing 
titat  ceaselessly.  I  am  not  thinking  now  of  pirates  and 
pickpockets.  But  take  the  case  of  a  sour,  backbiting, 
malicious,  wrong-headed,  lying  old  woman,  who  gives 
her  life  to  saying  disagreeable  things  and  making  mis- 
chief between  friends.  There  are  not  many  mortals 
with  whom  one  is  less  disposed  to  have  patience.  But 
yet,  if  you  knew  all,  you  would  not  be  so  severe  in  what 
you  think  and  say  of  her.  You  do  not  know  the  ])hy- 
sical  irrital)ility  of  nerve  and  weakness  of  constitution 
which  that  poor  creature  may  have  iidierited  ;  you  do 
not  know  the  singular  twist  of  mind  wliich  she  may 
have  got  from  nature  and  from  bad  and  unkind  treat- 
ment in  youth;  you  do  not  know  the  bitterne>s  of  heart 
slie  has  felt  at  the  polite  snubbings  and  ladylike  tortures 
which  in  excellent  society  are  often  the  share  of  the  j)Oor 
and  the  dependent.  If  you  knew  all  these  things,  you 
would  bear  more  patiently  with  my  friend  JMiss  Lime- 
jnic(! ;  though  I  confess  that  sometimes  you  would  find 
it   uncommonly  hard  to  do  so. 

As  I  wrote  that  last  paragraph,  I  began  dimly  to  fancy 
that  somewhere  I  had  seen  the  idea  which  is  its  subject 
treated  by  an  abh-r  hand  l)y  far  than  mine.  The  idea, 
you  may  be  sure,  was  not  suggested  to  me  l)y  books,  but 
t)y  what  I  have  seen  of  men  and  women.  But  it  is  a 
pleasant  thing  to  find  tli;it  a  lliou^ht  which  at  the  time  is 
strongly  impressing  one's  self,  has  impressed  other  men. 
And  a  modest  person,  who  knows  very  nearly  what  hia 


122  COXCRIiXING   PKOI'Li:   OF   WHOM 

huml)le  murk  is,  will  he  quite  pleased  to  find  thai  another 
man  lias  not  only  anticipated  iiis  tlionglits,  but  lias  ex* 
pressed  them  rnueii  better  than  he  could  have  done.  Yes, 
let  me  turn  to  lliat  incomparatile  essay  of  John  Foster, 
On  a  Man^s  tvriting  Memoirs  of  Himself.     Here  it  is  :  — 

JIakc  the  supposition  that  any  given  nunihcr  of  persons,  a  Iiunilreil, 
for  instance,  taken  prom iscuousl_v,  should  l)e  able  to  write  memoirs  of 
themselves  so  clear  nnd  perfect  as  to  explain,  to  your  discernment  at 
least,  the  entire  process  by  which  their  minds  have  attained  tlieir  pres- 
ent st;i(e,  recounting  all  the  most  impressive  circumstances.  If  they 
should  read  these  memoirs  to  you  in  succession,  while  your  benevo- 
lence and  the  moral  principles  according  to  which  you  felt  and  esti- 
mated, were  kept  at  t!ie  highest  pitch,  you  would  often,  during  the 
disclosure,  regret  to  observe  how  many  things  may  be  the  causes  of 
irretrievable  mischief".  Why  is  the  path  of  life,  you  would  say,  so 
haunted  as  if  with  evil  spirits  of  every  diversity  of  noxious  agency, 
some  of  which  may  patiently  accompany,  or  others  of  which  may  sud- 
denly* cross,  the  unfortunate  wandererV  And  you  would  regret  to  ob- 
serve into  how  many  forms  of  intelU'ctual  and  moial  perversion  the 
human  mind  readily  yields  itself  to  be  modified. 

I  compassionate  you,  would,  in  a  very  benevolent  hour,  be  youi 
language  to  the  wealthy,  unfeeling  tyrant  of  a  famihj  and  a  ntitjlibor- 
hood,  who  seeks  in  the  overawed  timidity  and  unretaliated  injuries  of 
the  unfortunate  beings  within  his  power,  the  gratification  that  should 
have  been  sought  in  tlieir  affections.  Unless  you  had  brought  into 
the  world  some  extraordinary  refractoriness  to  the  influence  of  evil, 
the  process  that  j-ou  have  undergone  could  not  easily  fail  of  i)eing 
efficacious.  If  your  parents  idolized  their  own  importance  in  their  son 
so  much,  that  they  never  opposed  your  inclinations  themselves,  nor 
perniilted  it  to  be  done  by  any  subject  to  their  authority;  if  the  hum- 
Lie  companion,  sometimes  summoned  to  the  honor  of  amusing  you, 
bore  your  caprices  and  insolence  with-  the  meekness  without  which  be 
had  lost  his  enviable  privilege;  if  you  could  despoil  the  garden  of  some 
nameless  dependent  neighbor  of  the  carefully  reared  flowers,  and  tor- 
ment his  little  dog  or  cat,  without  his  daring  to  yiunish  you  or  lo 
appeal  to  your  infatuated  parents;  if  aged  men  addressed  you  in  a 
submissive  tone,  and  with  the  appellation  of  "Sir,"  and  their  aged 
wives  uttereil  their  wonder  at  your  condescension,  and  pushed  their 
grandchildren  away  from  around  the  tire  for  your  sake,  if  you  hap- 
Dened,  though  with  the  strut  of  pertne.ss,  and  your  hat  on  your  head. 


MOifE  :\[;Girr  have  been  made.  123 

lO  enter  one  of  their  cottages,  perhaps  to  express  your  contempt  of  the 
homely  lUvellinj;-,  furniture,  and  faro;  if,  in  niaturtr  life,  you  associated 
with  vile  persons,  who  wouM  forego  the  contest  of  equality  to  be  youf 
allies  in  tramplino-  on  inferiors;  and  if,  both  then  and  since,  you  have 
been  suffered  to  deem  your  wealth  tlie  compendium  or  equivalent  of 
every  ability  and  every  good  quality  — it  would  indeed  be  immensely 
strange  if  j'ou  had  not  become,  in  due  time,  the  miscreant,  who  may 
thank  the  power  of  the  laws  in  civilized  society  that  he  is  not  assaulted 
with  clubs  and  stones;  to  whom  one  could  cordially  wish  the  oppor- 
tunity and  the  consequences  if  attempting  his  tyranny  among  some 
such  people  as  those  submigslcc  sons  of  nature  in  the  forests  of  North 
America;  and  whose  dependents  and  domestic  relatives  may  be  almost 
forgiven  when  they  shall  one  day  rejoice  at  his  funeral. 

What  do  you  tliink  of  t/iat,  my  reader,  as  a  specimen 
of"  embittered  eloquence  and  nervous  pith?  It  i>  some- 
thing to  read  massive  and  energetic  sense,  in  days  wherein 
mystical  twjiddle,  and  subtlety  which  hopelessly  defies  ;dl 
logic,  are  sometimes  thought  extremel}'  fine,  if  they  are 
set  out  in  a  style  whicli  is  refined  into  mere  efiemiiiacy. 

1  cherish  a  very  strong  conviction  (as  has  been  said) 
tliat,  at  least  in  tlie  case  of  educated  i^cople,  happiness  is 
a  grand  discipline  fiir  bringing  out  what  is  amiable  and 
exc(dlent.  Ymi  tnidcrsiand,  of  cour.-e,  what  I  mean  by 
happiness.  We  all  know,  of  course,  that  light  hetirled- 
ness  is  not  very  familiar  to  grown-up  people,  who  are 
doing  the  work  of  life  —  who  feel  its  many  cares,  and 
who  do  not  forget  the  many  risks  which  hang  over  it.  I 
am  not  thinking  of  the  kind  of  thing  which  is  suggested 
to  the  minds  of  children,  when  ihcv  read,  at  tiie  end  of  a 
tale,  concerning  its  heroine  an<l  hero,  that  "■  they  lived 
happily  ever  after."  No  ;  we  don't  look  for  that.  By 
happiness,  I  mean  freedom  from  terrible  anxiety  and 
from  pervading  depression  of  s[)irits:  the  consciousness 
that  we  are  filling  our  place  in  life  with  decent  success 


124  CON(  r.KNING   PEOri.K   OF    WHOM 

and  approbatiun  :  rdiijioiH  principle  ami  t-haracter:  fair 
physical  health  throughout  the  family;  and  moderate 
good  temper  and  good  sense.  And  I  hold,  with  Sydney 
Smith,  and  with  that  keen  practical  philosopher,  Becky 
Sliarpe,  that  happiness  and  success  tend  very  greatly  to 
make  people  passably  good.  Well,  I  ^ee  an  answer  to 
the  statement,  as  I  do  to  most  statements ;  but,  at  least, 
the  beam  is  never  subjected  to  the  strain  which  would 
break  it.  I  have  seen  the  gradual  working  of  what  1 
call  happiness  and  .-uccess  in  ameliorating  character.  I 
liave  known  a  man  who,  by  ncces.-ity,  i)y  the  pressure  of 
j)overty,  was  driven  to  write  for  the  magazines:  a  kind 
of  woi  k  for  which  he  had  no  special  talent  or  liking,  and 
which  he  had  never  intended  to  attempt.  There  was  no 
more  mi>eral)le,  nervou-,  anxious,  disa|)pointed  being  on 
earth  than  he  was  when  he  began  his  willing  for  the 
press.  And  sure  enough  his  articles  were  bitter  and  ill- 
set  to  a  high  degree.  They  were  thoroughly  ill-natured 
and  ])ad.  They  were  not  devoid  of  a  certain  cleverness  ; 
but  they  were  the  sour  products  of  a  soured  nature.  But 
that  man  gradually  got  into  comfortable  circumstances: 
and  with  equal  step  with  his  lot  the  tone  of  his  writings 
mended;  till  as  a  writer  he  became  conspicuous  for  the 
healthful,  cheerful,  and  kindly  nature  of  all  he  produced. 
I  remember  seeing  a  portrait  of  an  eminent  author,  taken 
a  good  many  years  ago,  at  a  lime  wiien  he  was  strug- 
gling into  notice,  and  when  he  was  being  very  severely 
handled  by  the  ci-itics.  That  portrait  was  really  trucu- 
lent of  as[)ect.  It  was  sour,  and  even  ferocious-looking. 
Years  afterwards  I  saw  that  author,  at  a  time  when  he 
had  attained  vast  success,  and  was  universally  recognized 
as  a  great  man.  How  improved  that  face!  All  the  sav- 
age lines  were  gone  :  the  bitter  look  was  gone  :  the  great 


MOHE   MIGHT  HAYE  BEEX  MADE.  125 

mail  looked  quite  griiial  ami  amiable.  And  I  caiue  to 
know  tliat  he  really  wa.s  all  he  looked.  Bitter  judgments 
of  men,  imputations  of  evil  motives,  disbelief  in  anything 
noble  or  generous,  a  disposition  to  repeat  tales  to  the 
|)rejudice  of  others,  envy,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  unchari- 
tal)lenes;s,  —  all  these  thing-?  may  possibly  come  out  of  a 
bad  heart ;  but  they  certainly  came  out  of  a  miserable 
one.  The  happier  any  human  being  is,  the  better  and 
more  kindly  he  thinks  of  all.  It  is  the  man  who  is  al- 
ways worried,  who-e  means  are  uncertain,  whose  home  is 
uncomfortable,  whose  nerves  are  rasped  by  some  kind 
fi'iend  who  daily  repeats  and  enlarges  ujion  everything 
disagreeable  for  him  to  hear:  it  is  he  who  thinks  hardly 
of  the  character  and  prospects  of  humankind,  and  who 
believes  in  the  essential  and  unimprovable  badness  of  the 
race. 

This  is  not  a  treatise  on  the  formation  of  character:  it 
pretends  to  notiiiiig  like  completeness.  If  this  essay  were 
to  extend  to  a  voliune  of  about  three  hundred  and  eighty 
])ages,  I  might  be  able  to  set  out  and  discuss,  in  something 
like  a  full  and  orderly  fashion,  the  influences  under  which 
human  beings  grow  up,  and  the  way  in  which  to  make 
the  best  of  the  best  of  these  influences,  and  to  evade  or 
neutralize  the  worst.  And  if,  after  great  thought  and 
labor,  I  had  jn-otluced  sucli  a  volume,  I  am  well  aware 
that  nobody  would  read  it.  So  I  prefer  to  briefly  glance 
at  a  few  aspects  of  a  great  subject  just  as  they  present 
themselves,  leaving  the  complete  discussion  of  it  to  solid 
individuals  with   more  leisure  at  their  command. 

Physically,  no  man  is  made  the  most  of.  Look  at  an 
acrobat  or  a  boxer  :  there  is  what   vour  liml)s  miirht  have 


126  CONCEllNI^svJ   PEOPLE  OF   WHOM 

been  made  for  strength  and  agility.  That  U  the  j)oteiitial 
which  is  in  human  nature  in  tliese  respects.  I  never 
witnessed  a  prize-fight,  and  assuredly  I  never  will  wit- 
ness one  :  but  I  am  told  that  when  tin;  champions  appear 
in  the  ring,  stripped  i'or  the  combat  (however  bestial  and 
Uackguard-looking  tiieir  countenances  may  be),  the  clear 
ness  and  beauty  of  tiieir  skin  testify  that  by  skilfid  pliy 
s^ical  discipline  a  great  (h-al  more  may  be  made  of  that 
human  hide  than  is  usually  made  of  it.  Then  if  you 
wish  to  see  what  may  be  made  of  the  human  muscles  as 
regards  rapid  dexterity,  look  at  the  Wiziard  of  the  North 
or  at  an  Indian  juggler.  I  am  very  far  indeed  from  say- 
ing or  thinking  that  tiiis  peculiar  pre-eminence  is  worth 
the  pains  it  must  cost  to  acquire  it.  Not  that  I  have  a 
word  to  say  against  the  man  who  maintains  Ids  children 
by  bringing  some  one  faculty  of  the  body  to  absolute  per- 
fection :  I  am  ready  even  to  admit  that  it  is  a  very  right 
and  fit  thing  that  one  man  in  live  or  six  millions  should 
devote  his  life  to  showing  the  very  utmost  that  can  be 
made  of  the  human  fingers,  or  the  human  muscular  sys- 
tem as  a  whole  :  it  is  fit  that  a  rare  man  here  and  there 
should  cultivate  some  accompli.-hiuent  to  a  perfection  that 
looks  magical,  just  as  it  is  fit  that  a  man  here  and  there 
should  live  in  a  house  that  cost  a  million  of  pounds  to 
build,  and  i-ijimd  wliicli  a  wide  tract  of  country  shows 
what  may  be  mad(;  of  trees  and  fiidds  where  unlimited 
wealtii  and  exquisite  taste  have  done  their  best  to  im- 
prove nature  to  the  fairest  forms  of  whi('h  it  is  capable. 
r>ut  even  if  it  were  pos^ibl(^  it  woidd  not  be  desirable 
tliat  all  human  beings  .-hould  liv(!  in  dwellings  like  Ham- 
ilton Palace  or  Annidel  Ca>tle  ;  and  it  wou]d  serve  nc 
good  end  at  all,  certainly  no  end  worth  the  cost,  to  have 
all  educated  men  muscular  as   Tom  Sayers,  or  swift  of 


MORE  MIGHT   HAVE  BEEN  MADE.  127 

hand  as  Robert  Hoiulin.  Practical  efficiency  is  what  is 
wanted  for  the  business  ot"  tliis  world,  not  absolute  per- 
{'•'Clion  :  lii'e  is  too  short  to  allow  any  but  exceptional  in 
dividuals,  few  and  far  between,  to  acquire  the  power  of 
playing  at  rackets  as  well  as  rackets  can  possibly  be 
])layed.  We  are  obliii^ed  to  have  a  j;reat  numl)er  of  irons 
in  tlie  fire  :  it  is  needfid  that  we  sliould  do  decently  well 
u  great  number  of  things  ;  jiiid  we  must  not  devote  our« 
selves  to  one  thing  to  the  exclusion  of  all  the  rest.  And 
accordingly,  though  we  may  desire  to  be  reasonably  mus- 
cular and  reasonably  active,  it  will  not  disturb  us  to  tliink 
that  in  both  these  respects  we  are  peo[)le  of  whom  more 
niiglit  have  been  made.  It  may  hei'e  be  said  that  proba- 
bly there  is  hardly  an  influence  which  tends  so  power- 
fully to  produce  extreme  self-complacency  as  tlie  convic- 
tion that  as  regards  some  one  physical  accomplishment, 
one  is  a  person  of  whom  more  could  not  have  been  made. 
It  is  a  proud  thing  to  think  that  you  stand  decidedly 
ahead  of  all  mankind  :  that  Eclipse  is  fii-st  and  the  rest 
nowhere;  even  in  the  matter  of  keeping  nj)  six  balls 
at  once,  or  of  noting  and  remembering  twenty  different 
objects  in  a  shop  window  as  you  walk  past  it  at  five  miles 
an  hour.  I  do  not  think  1  ever  beheld  a  human  being 
whose  aspect  was  of  such  unutterable  pride,  as  a  man  I 
lately  saw  playing  (he  drum  as  one  of  a  certain  splendid 
military  band.  He  was  playing  in  a  piece  in  which  tlie 
drum  music  was  very  conspicuous;  and  even  an  unskilled 
observer  could  remark  that  his  playing  was  absolute  per- 
fection, lie  had  the  thorough  mastery  of  his  instrument. 
He  did  the  most  diiricult  things  not  only  with  admirable 
precision,  but  without  the  least  appearance  of  effort.  He 
was  a  great  tall  fellow :  and  it  was  really  a  fine  sight  to 
«ee  him  standing  verv  unrinht,  and  immovable  save  as 


128  CONCERNIXG  PEOrLE  OF  WHOM 

to  !iis  arms,  looking  fixedly  into  distance,  and  his  bosom 
-welling  with  the  lofty  belief  that  out  of  four  or  five 
thousand  persons  who  were  present,  there  was  not  one 
who,  to  save  his  life,  conld  have  done  what  he  was  doing 
so  easily. 

So  much  of  physical  dexterity.  As  for  physical  grace, 
t  will  be  admitted  that  in  that  respect  more  migiit  be 
made  of  most  human  beings.  It  is  not  merely  that  they 
are  ugly  and  awkward  naturally,  but  that  they  are  ugly 
and  awkward  artilieially.  Sir  Buhvcu-  Lytton  in  his  ear- 
lier writings  was  accustomed  to  maintain  that  just  as  it  is 
a  man's  duty  to  cultivate  his  mental  powers,  so  is  it  his 
duty  to  cultivate  his  bodily  apjiearance.  And  doubtless, 
all  llie  gifts  of  nature  are  talents  committed  to  us  to  be 
improved;  they  are  things  inlru.-ted  to  us  to  make  i\nt 
best  of  It  may  be  diificult  to  fix  the  point  at  which  the 
care  of  personal  appearance  in  man  or  woman  becomes 
excessive.  It  does  so  unquestionably  when  it  engrosses 
the  mind  to  the  neglect  of  more  important  things.  But 
I  suppose  that  all  reasonable  people  now  believe  that 
scrupulous  att('nti(m  to  personal  cleanliness,  fre.-hness,  and 
neatness,  is  a  Cliristian  duly.  Tlie  days  are  past  almost 
everywhere  in  which  piety  was  held  as  associated  with 
dirt.  Nobody  would  mention  now  as  a  proof  how  saintly 
a  human  being  was,  that  (for  the  love  of  God)  he  liad 
never  washed  his  face  or  brushed  his  hair  lor  lliirly 
years.  And  ev(Mi  scrupulous  neatness  need  bring  with 
it  no  suspicion  of  puppyism.  The  most  trim  and  tidy 
of  old  men  was  good  John  Wesley ;  and  he  conveyed  to 
the  minds  of  all  who  saw  him  the  notion  of  a  man  whose 
treasure  was  laid  up  beyond  this  world,  quite  as  much  as 
if  he  had  dressed  in  such  a  fasjiion  as  to  make  himself  an 
object  of  ridicule,  or  as  if  he  had  forsworn  tiie  use  of  soap. 


MORE  MIGHT   HAVE   BEEX   MADE.  12& 

Some  people  fancy  that  slovenliness  of  attire  indicates 
a  mind  above  petty  details.  I  have  seen  an  eminent 
preacher  ascend  the  pul[)it,  with  his  bands  hanging  over 
his  riglit  shoiikler,  his  gown  apparently  put  on  by  being 
dropped  upon  him  from  the  vestry  ceiling,  and  his  hair 
apparently  unbrushed  for  several  weeks.  There  was  no 
suspicion  of  affectation  about  tliat  good  man  ;  yet  I  re- 
garded his  untidiness  as  a  defect  and  not  as  an  excel- 
lence, lie  gave  a  most  eloquent  sermon ;  yet  I  thought 
it  would  have  been  well  had  the  lofty  mind  that  treated 
so  admii'ably  some  of  the  grandest  realities  of  life  and  of 
immortality,  been  able  to  address  itself  a  little  to  the  care 
of  lesser  things.  I  confess  that  when  I  heard  the  Bishop 
of  Oxford  preach,  I  thought  the  effect  of  his  sermon  was 
increased  by  the  decorous  and  careful  fashion  in  which  he 
was  arrayed  in  liis  robes.  And  it  is  to  be  admitted  that 
the  grace  of  the  Inunan  aspect  may  be  in  no  small  meas- 
ure enhanced  by  bestowing  a  little  pains  upon  it.  You, 
youtiiful  matron,  when  you  take  your  little  chihlrcn  to  have 
their  photographs  taken,  and  when  their  nurse  in  contem- 
plation of  that  event  attired  them  in  their  most  tasteful 
dresses,  and  arranged  their  hair  in  its  prettiest  curls, 
you  know  tliat  the  little  things  looked  a  great  deal 
better  than  they  do  on  common  days.  It  is  pure  non- 
sense to  say  that  beauty  when  unadorned  is  adorned  ihc 
most.  For  that  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  a  pretty  young 
woman,  in  the  matter  of  physical  appearance,  is  a  person 
of  whom  no  more  can  be  made.  Now  taste  and  skill  can 
make  more  of  almost  anything.  And  you  will  set  down 
Thomson's  lines  as  flatly  opposed  to  fact,  when  your  lively 
young  cousin  walks  into  your  room  to  let  you  sec  her 
before  she  goes  out  to  an  evening  party  ;  and  wlien  you 
compare  that  radiant  vision,  in  her  robes  of  misty  texture, 


130  CONCKRNING   PEOPLE   OF    WHOM 

Rncl  with  hair  arranged  in  folds  the  most  complicated  — 
wrcatlicd,  and  satin  sliced  —  witli  the  homely  fif^ure  tliat 
took  a  walk  with  you  that  afternoon,  rnsset-gowned,  tar- 
tan-plaided,  and  shod  with  S(!rvic.eab]e  boots  for  tramping 
through  country  mud.  One  does  not  think  of  lovelinei^s 
in  the  case  of  men,  because  they  have  not  got  any :  but 
liieir  aspect,  such  as  it  is,  is  mainly  made  by  their  tailors. 
And  it  is  a  lamentable  thought,  how  very  ill  the  clolhea 
of  most  men  are  made.  1  think  that  tlie  art  of  draping 
the  male  human  body  has  been  brought  to  much  less  ex- 
cellence by  the  mass  of  those  who  practise  it,  than  any 
other  of  the  useful  and  ornamental  arts.  Tailors,  even  in 
great  cities,  are  generally  extremely  bad.  Or  it  may  be 
that  the  providing  of  the  iininan  frame  witli  decent  and 
well-fitling  garments  is  so  very  ditricult  a  thing,  that  (save 
by  a  great  genius  here  and  there)  it  can  be  no  more  than 
approximated  to.  As  for  tailors  in  liltle  country  villages, 
tlieir  power  of  distorting  and  disfiguring  is  wonderful. 
When  I  used  to  be  a  country  clergyman,  I  remember 
how,  when  I  went  to  the  funeral  of  some  simple  rustic,  I 
was  tilled  with  surprise  to  see  the  tall,  strapping,  fine 
young  country  lads,  ari-ayed  in  their  black  suits.  What 
awkward  figures  they  looked  in  tiiose  unwonted  gar- 
ments !  How  different  fnnn  their  easy,  natural  ajipear- 
anc(!  in  their  every-day  fustian  !  Here  you  would  see  a 
young  fellow,  with  a  coat  whose  huge  collar  covered  half 
Iiis  head  when  you  looked  at  iiim  from  behind  ;  a  very 
'.•ommon  tiling  was  to  liavc  -Ircves  which  entii'ely  con- 
cealed the  hands;  and  the  wiinkled  and  baggy  aspect  of 
the  whole  suits  could  be  imagined  only  by  such  as  have 
seen  them.  It  may  be  remarked  here,  that  those  strong 
country  lads  were  in  another  respect  people  of  whom 
more  might  have  been  phys.ically  made.    Oh  for  a  drill- 


MORE  MIGHT   HAVE  BEEN  MADE.  151 

sergeant  lo  teach  them  to  stand  upright,  and  to  turn  out 
their  toes  ;  and  to  jret  rid  of  that  slouching,  huUdng  gait 
which  gives  such  a  look  of  clumsiness  and  stupidity!  If 
you  could  but  have  the  well-develoj)ed  muscles  and  the 
i'resh  complexion  of  the  country,  witii  the  smartness  and 
alertness  of  the  town !  You  have  there  the  rough  material 
of  which  a  vast  deal  may  be  made  ;  you  have  the  water- 
worn  pebble  which  will  take  on  a  beautiful  polish.  Take 
from  the  moorland  cottage  the  shepherd-lad  of  sixteen  ; 
send  him  to  a  Scotch  college  for  four  years;  let  him  be 
tutor  in  a  good  family  for  a  year  or  two  ;  and  (if  he  be  an 
observant  fellow)  you  will  find  in  him  the  quiet,  self-pos- 
sessed air  and  the  easy  address  of  the  gentleman  who  has 
seen  the  world.  And  it  is  curious  to  see  one  brother  of  a 
family  thus  educated  and  polished  into  refinement,  while 
the  other  tiiree  or  four,  remaining  in  their  fatlier's  simple 
lot,  retain  its  rough  manners  and  its  unso|)histicated  feel- 
ings. Well,  look  at  the  man  who  has  been  made  a  gen- 
tleman, probably  by  the  hard  labor  and  sore  self-denial 
of  the  others;  and  see  in  him  what  each  of  the  others 
might  have  been  !  Look  with  respect  on  the  diamond 
Avhich  needed  only  to  be  ijolishi'd.  Reverence  the  unde- 
veloped potential  which  circumstances  have  held  down. 
Look  with  interest  on  these  peo})le  of  whom  more  might 
have  been  made  ! 

Such  a  sight  as  this  sometimes  sets  us  thinking  how 
many  germs  of  excellence  are  in  this  world  tnrnc^d  to  no 
account.  You  see  the  [jolislicd  diamond  and  tlie  rough 
one  side  by  side.  It  is  too  late  now  ;  but  the  dull  color- 
less pebble  might  have  been  the  bright  glancing  gem. 
And  you  may  poli.-h  the  material  diamond  at  any  time  ; 
but  if  you  miss  your  season  in  the  case  of  th(^  human  one, 
the  loss  can  never  be  repaired.     The  bumpkin  who  is  a 


132  CONCERNING   PEOPLE   OF   AVIIOM 

biim])kii)  !i;  tliirtv,  must  rcniMin  a  bumpkin  to  tlireesconj 
and  ten.  l>nt  another  thing  that  make-s  u.s  think  liow 
many  lait  possibiUties  are  lost,  is  to  remark  the  fortuitous 
way  in  which  great  things  liave  often  been  doiu; ;  and 
(l()n(,'  iiy  people  who  never  (h'eamt  that  they  had  in  them 
I  lie  power  to  do  anything  pariicular.  These  cases,  one 
cannot  but  think,  are  samples  of  millions  more.  There 
Iiave  been  very  ])opidar  writers  who  were  brought  out  by 
mci-e  accident.  They  did  not  know  wliat  precious  vein 
of  thought  they  had  at  command,  till  they  stumbled  upon 
it  as  if  by  chance,  like  the  Indian  at  the  mines  of  Potosi. 
It  is  not  mucii  tiiat  we  know  of  Shakespeare,  but  it  seems 
certain  that  it  was  in  patching  up  old  plays  for  acting  that 
he  discovered  within  himself  a  capacity  for  producing  that 
which  men  will  not  easily  let  die.  When  a  young  mili- 
tary man,  disheartened  with  the;  service,  sought  for  an 
appointment  as  an  Iii>h  Coniini>sioner  of  Excise,  and 
was  sadly  di.-appointed  because  he  did  not  get  it,  it  is 
pi-obable  that  he  had  as  liiile  idea  as  any  one  else  had 
(hat  he  posse.-sed  that  aiititude  for  the  conduct  of  war 
which  was  to  make  him  the  T)uke  of  "Wellington.  And 
when  a  young  mathematician,  entirely  devoid  of  ambition, 
desired  to  settle  quietly  down,  and  devote  all  his  life  to 
that  unexciting  study,  he  was  not  aware  that  he  was  a 
])erson  of  whom  more  was  to  be  made;  —  who  was  lo 
grow  into  the  great  Emperor  Napoleon.  I  had  other 
instances  in  my  mind,  but  after  these  last  it  is  needless  to 
mi'iition  them.  lUit  such  cases  suggest  to  u>  that  there 
may  have  been  many  FoUetls  who  never  held  a  brief, 
m;iny  Keans  who  never  acted  but  in  barns,  many  Van- 
dyks  who  never  earned  more  than  sixpence  a  dav,  many 
Ooldsmiihs  who  never  were  better  than  penny-a-liners, 
many  Michaels  who  never   built  their  St.  Peters ;  and 


MORE  MIGHT   HAVE  BEEN   MADE.  133 

perhaps  a  Shakespeare  wlio  held  horses  at  the  theatro 
door  for  pence,  as  the  Sliakespeare  we  know  of  did,  and 
who  stopped  tliere. 

Let  it  liere  be  suggested,  that  it  is  higlily  illogical  to 
conclude  that  you  are  yourself  a  person  of  whom  a  great 
deal  more  niiglit  iiave  been  made,  merely  because  you 
are  a  person  of  whom  it  is  the  fact  that  very  little  ha^^ 
actually  been  made.  This  suggestion  may  appear  a  tru- 
ism;  but  it  is  one  of  those  simple  truths  of  which  we  al 
need  to  be  occasionally  reminded.  After  all,  the  great 
test  of  what  a  man  can  do,  must  be  what  a  man  does. 
But  there  are  folk  who  live  on  the  reputation  of  being 
pebbles  capable  of  receiving  a  very  high  polish,  thougii 
from  circumstances  they  did  not  choose  to  be  polished. 
Tiiere  are  people  who  stand  high  in  general  estimation 
on  the  ground  of  what  they  might  have  done  if  they  had 
liked.  You  will  tind  students  who  took  no  honors  at  the 
university,  but  wiio  endeavor  to  impress  their  friends  with 
the  notion  that  if  they  had  cho-en,  they  could  have  at- 
tained to  unexam[iled  eminence.  And  sometimes,  no 
doubt,  tiiere  are  great  powers  that  run  to  waste.  There 
have  been  men  whose  doings,  spbiulid  as  they  were,  were 
no  more  than  a  hint  of  liow  much  more  they  could  have 
done.  In  such  a  case  as  that  of  Coleridge,  you  see  how 
the  lack  of  steady  industry,  and  of  all  sense  of  respon- 
sibility, abated  the  tangible  result  of  the  noble  intellect 
God  gave  him.  But  as  a  general  rule,  and  in  the  case 
of  ordinary  peo])le,  you  need  not  give  a  man  credit  for 
the  possession  of  any  powers  beyond  those  which  he  has 
actually  exhibited.  If  a  l)oy  is  at  tiie  bottom  of  his  class, 
it  is  probably  because  he  could  not  attain  its  top.  ]My 
friend  Mr.  Snarling  thinks  he  can  write  much  better  arti- 
cles  than   tlo-e  which  appear  in  any  of  the  magazines  ; 


134  CONCERNING   PEOPLE   OF   WHOM 

but  as  lie  has  not  done  so,  I  am  not  inclined  to  ^ive  hira 
credit  tor  the  achievement.  But  you  can  see  that  this 
principle  of  estimating  peo|)le's  abilities  not  by  what  they 
have  done,  but  by  what  they  think  they  could  do,  will  be 
much  approved  by  persons  who  are  stupid,  and  at  the 
same  time  conceited.  It  is  a  pleasing  arrangement  that 
every  man  should  fix  his  own  mental  mark,  and  hold  by 
his  estimate  of  himself.  And  then,  never  measuring  his 
strength  with  othei's,  Ik;  can  suppose  that  he  could  have 
beat  them  if  he  had  tried. 

Yes,  we  are  all  mainly  tit-hioned  by  circumstances  ; 
and  had  the  circMin-lanees  been  more  propitious,  they 
might  have  made  a  great  deal  more  of  us.  You  some- 
times think,  middle-aged  man,  who  never  have  passed  the 
limits  of  Britain,  what  an  effect  might  have  been  pro- 
duced upon  your  views  and  character  by  foreign  travel. 
You  think  what  an  indefinite  expansion  of  mind  it  might 
have  caused  ;  how  many  narrow  prejudices  it  might  have 
rubbed  away  ;  how  much  wiser  and  better  a  man  it  might 
have  made  you.  Or  more  society  and  wider  reading  in 
your  early  youth  might  have  improved  you  ;  might  have 
taken  away  the  shyness  and  the  intrusive  individuality 
which  you  sometimes  feel  painfully  ;  might  have  called 
out  one  cannot  say  what  of  greater  confidence  and  larger 
sympathy.  How  very  little,  you  think  to  yourself^  you 
have  seen  and  known  I  While  others  skim  great  libra- 
ries, you  read  the  same  few  books  over  and  over  ;  while 
others  come  to  know  many  lands  and  cities,  and  the  faces 
and  ways  of  many  men,  you  look,  year  after  year,  on  the 
same  few  square  miles  of  this  world,  and  you  have  to 
form  your  notion  of  human  nature  from  the  study  of  but 
few  human  beings,  and  these  very  commonplace.  Per- 
haps it  is  as  well.     It  is  not  so  certain  that  more  would 


MORE  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN   MADE.  135 

have  been  made  of  you  if  you  had  enjoyed  what  mijjht 
seem  greater  advantage*.  Perhaps  you  learned  more  by 
studying  the  little  field  before  you  earnestly  and  long, 
ihan  you  would  have  learned  if  you  had  bestowed  a  cur- 
Fory  glance  upon  (ields  more  extensive  by  far.  Perhnps 
there  was  compensation  for  the  fewness  of  the  cases  you 
had  to  observe,  in  the  keenness  with  which  you  were  able 
to  observe  them.  Perhaps  the  Great  Disposer  saw  that 
in  your  case  the  pel)ble  got  nearly  all  the  polishing  it 
would  stand  ;  the  man  nearly  all  the  chances  he  could 
improve. 

If  there  be  soundness  and  justice  in  this  suggestion, 
it  may  afford  consolation  to  a  considerable  class  of  men 
and  women.  I  mean  tliose  people  who,  feeling  within 
themselves  many  defects  of  character,  and  discerning  in 
their  outward  lot  much  which  they  would  wish  other 
than  it  is,  are  ready  to  think  tliat  some  one  thing  would 
have  put  them  right;  that  some  one  thing  would  put 
them  right  even  yet ;  but  something  which  they  have 
hopelessly  missed,  something  which  can  never  be.  There 
was  just  one  testing  event,  which  stood  between  them 
and  their  being  made  a  vast  deal  more  of.  They  would 
have  been  far  bettin*  and  far  happier,  (hey  think,  had 
some  single  malign  influence  been  kept  away  which  has 
darkened  all  their  life  ;  or  had  some  single  blessing  been 
given  which  would  have  made  it  happy.  If  you  had 
got  such  a  parish  which  you  did  not  get  ;  if  you  had 
married  such  a  woman  ;  if  your  little  child  had  not  died  ; 
if  you  had  always  the  society  and  sympathy  of  such  an 
energetic  and  hopeful  friend  ;  if  the  scenery  round  your 
dwelling  were  of  a  different  character  ;  if  the  neighbor- 
ing town  were  four  miles  off  instead  of  lifteen  ;  if  any 
one  of  these  circumstances  had  been  altered,  what  a  dif- 


136  CONCERNLXG  PEOPLE  OF  WHOM 

ferent  man  you  might  have  been  !  Probably  many 
people,  even  of  middle  age,  conscious  that  the  manifold 
cares  and  worries  of  life  forbid  that  it  should  be  evenly 
joyous,  do  yet  cherish,  at  the  bottom  of  their  heart,  some 
vague  yet  rooted  fancy,  that  if  but  one  thing  were  given 
on  which  they  had  set  their  hearts,  or  one  care  removed 
forever,  they  would  be  jierfectly  happy,  even  here.  Per- 
haps you  overrate  the  etfect  which  would  have  been  pro- 
duced on  your  character  by  such  a  single  cause.  It 
might  not  have  made  you  much  better ;  it  might  not 
even  have  made  you  very  different.  And  assuredly 
you  are  wrong  in  fancying  that  any  such  single  thing 
could  have  made  you  happy ;  that  is,  entirely  happy. 
Nothing  in  this  world  could  ever  make  you  that.  It  \» 
not  God's  ])urpose  that  we  slioidd  be  entirely  happy 
here.  "  This  is  not  our  rest."  The  day  will  never 
come  which  will  not  bring  its  worry.  And  the  i)ossi- 
bility  of  tenible  misfortune  and  sorrow  hangs  over  all. 
There  is  but  one  place  where  we  shall  be  right ;  and 
that  is  far  away. 

Yes,  more  might  have  been  made  of  all  of  us  ;  j)rob- 
ably,  in  the  case  of  most,  not  much  more  will  be  made 
in  this  world.  We  are  now,  if  we  have  reached  middle 
life,  very  much  what-  we  shall  be  to  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter. We  shall  not,  in  this  world,  be  much  better;  let 
us  humbly  trust  that  we  .-iiiill  not  be  worse.  Yet,  if 
there  be  an  undefinable  sadness  in  looking  at  the  marred 
material  of  which  so  much  more  might  have  been  made, 
there  is  a  subliiin'  hopcfuliiess  in  the  contemplalion  of 
material,  bodily  and  menial,  of  which  a  great  deal  more 
and  better  will  certainly  yet  be  made.  Not  much  more 
may  be  made  of  any  of  us  in  life  ;  but  who  shall  estimate 


MORE  MKiHT   HAVE  BEEN  MADE.  137 

what  may  be  made  of  ns  in  immortality  ?  Think  of  a 
"  s[)iritual  lody  ;  "  lliink  of  a  perfectly  pure  and  happy 
soul  !  I  thought  of  this  on  a  beautiful  evening  of  this 
summer,  walking  with  a  mucli  valued  friend  through  a 
certain  grand  ducal  domain.  In  front  of  a  noble  sep- 
ulchre, where  is  laid  up  much  aristocratic  dust,  there 
are  sculptured  by  some  great  artist,  three  colossal  faces, 
which  are  meant  to  represent  Life,  Death,  and  Immor- 
tality. It  was  easy  to  represent  death :  the  face  was  one 
of  solemn  rest,  with  closed  eyas ;  and  the  sculptor's  skill 
was  mainly  shown  in  distinguishing  Life  from  Immor- 
tality. And  he  iiad  done  it  well.  There  was  Life,  a 
careworn,  anxious,  weary  face,  that  seemed  to  look  at 
you  earnestly,  and  wiili  a  vague  inquiry  for  something 
—  the  something  that  is  lucking  in  all  things  here.  And 
there  was  Immortality  :  life-like,  but  oh !  how  different 
from  mortal  Lif;  !  lYicre  was  the  beautiful  face  ;  calm, 
satisfied,  self-possessed,  sublime  ;  and  with  eyes  looking 
far  away.  I  see  it  yet,  the  crimson  sunset  warming  the 
gray  stone;  and  a  great  hawthorn  tree,  covered  with 
blossoms,  standing  by.  Yes,  (here  was  Immortality;  and 
you  jelt,  as  you  looked  at  it,  that  it  was  more  made  of 
MFK  1 


CHAPTER   VL 

CONCERNING    PEOPLE   WHO  CARRIED  WEIGIPI 
IN   LIFE. 


MlTIl    SOME    THOUGHTS    ON     THOSE    WHO     NEVER    IIAI 
A    CHANCE. 

^•^v'f'^jy^'';  OU  drive  out,  let  us  suppose,  upon  a  cer- 
'^i^^^\\y  tf»'"  tl:iy-  To  your  surprise  and  mortifica- 
^^^''b"'-'^  tioii.  your  lior.se,  usually  lively  and  frisky, 
■<cL^<sr9^£f'^  is  quite  dull  and  sluggish.  Pie  does  not 
get  over  tlie  ground  as  he  is  wont  to  do.  The  slightest 
touch  of  \vhi|)c"ord,  on  other  days,  suiliees  to  make  him 
dart  forward  with  redoubled  speed  ;  but  upon  this  day, 
after  two  or  three  miles,  he  needs  positive  whipping, 
and  he  runs  very  sulkily  with  it  all.  By  and  bye  his 
coat,  usually  smooth  and  glossy  and  dry  through  all 
reasonable  work,  begins  to  stream  like  a  water-cart. 
This  will  not  do.  There  is  something  wrong.  You 
investigate  ;  and  you  discover  that  your  horse's  work, 
though  seemingly  the  same  as  usual,  is  in  fact  im- 
mensely greater.  The  blockheads  who  oiled  your  wheels 
yesterday  have  screwed  up  your  patent  axles  too  tightly  ; 
the  friction  is  enormous  ;  the  hotter  the  metal  gets,  the 
greater  grows  the  friction  ;  your  horse's  work  is  quad- 
rupled. You  drive  slowly  home  ;  and  severely  upbraid 
the  blockheads. 

There  are  many  people  who  have  to  go  through  life 
at  an  analogous   disadvantage.     There   is   something  in 


CARRYING  WEIGHT  IN   LIFE.  13S 

their  con-tiliiiion  of  body  or  mind  ;  there  is  something  in 
their  ciiTumstances ;  whicli  adds  incalculal>lj  to  the  ex« 
ertion  tlii-y  must  go  tiirough  to  attain  their  ends  ;  and 
wliieh  holds  them  back  from  doing  what  tliey  might 
otlierwise  have  done.  Very  j)rol)ably,  that  malign  some- 
tiling  exerted  its  influence  unpereeived  by  those  around 
them.  They  did  not  get  credit  for  the  struggle  they 
were  making.  No  one  knew  what  a  brave  fight  they 
were  making  with  a  broken  right  arm  ;  no  one  remarked 
that  they  were  running  the  race,  and  keeping  a  fair 
place  in  it  too,  with  their  legs  tied  together.  All  they 
do,  they  do  at  a  disadvantage.  It  is  as  when  a  noble 
race-horse  is  beaten  by  a  sorry  hack  ;  because  the  race- 
horse, as  you  might  see  if  you  look  at  the  list,  is  carry- 
ing twelve  pounds  additional.  But  such  men,  by  a  des- 
perate effort,  often  made  silently  and  sorrowfully,  may 
(so  to  speak)  run  in  the  race  ;  and  do  well  in  it ;  though 
you  little  think  with  how  heavy  a  foot  and  how  heavy  a 
heart.  There  are  others,  who  have  no  chance  at  all. 
They  are  like  a  horse  set  to  run  a  race,  tied  by  a  strong 
rope  to  a  tree;  or  weighted  with  ten  tons  of  extra  bur- 
den. IViat  horse  canjiot  run,  even  poorly.  The  differ- 
ence between  their  case  and  that  of  the  miMi  who  are 
placed  at  a  disadvantage;,  is  like  the  difierence  between 
setting  a  very  near-sighted  man  to  keep  a  sharp  look- 
out, and  setting  a  man  who  is  quite  blind  to  keep  that 
sharp  look-out.  Many  can  do  the  work  of  life  with 
dilliculty  ;  some  cannot  do  it  at  all.  In  short,  there  are 
TKOi'LE  WHO  CAUuy  WEIGHT  IN  LiFiv ;  and  there  are 

some  AVHO  NEVEK  HAVE  A  CHANCE. 

And  you,  my  friend,  who  are  doing  the  work  of  life 
well  and  creditably  :  you  who  are  running  in  the  front 
rank,  and  likely  to  do  so  to  the  end ;   think  kindly  and 


140  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  WHO 

charitiii)ly  of  those  who  have  broken  down  in  the  race. 
Tiiink  kindly  of  h'nn  who,  sadly  over-weighted,  is  strug- 
gling onwr.rds  away  half-a-mile  heiiind  yon  ;  think  more 
kindly  yet,  if  that  be  possible,  of  him  who,  tethered  to  a 
ton  of  granite,  is  struggling  hard  and  making  no  way  at 
all ;  or  who  has  even  sat  down  and  given  up  tiie  struggle 
in  dumb  d('s[)aii'.  Yon  feel,  I  know,  the  weakness  in 
yourself  which  would  have  made  you  break  down  if  sore- 
ly tried  like  others.  You  know  there  is  in  your  armor 
the  unprotected  place,  at  which  a  well-aimed  or  a  random 
blow  would  have  gone  home  and  brought  you  down.  Yes, 
you  are  nearing  the  wiiming-post,  and  you  are  among  the 
first;  but  six  pounds  more  on  your  back,  and  you  might 
have  been  nowhere.  You  feel,  by  your  weak  heart  and 
weary  frame,  that  if  you  had  been  sent  to  the  Crimea  in 
that  dreadful  first  winter,  you  would  certainly  have;  died. 
And  you  feel,  too,  by  your  lack  of  moral  stamina,  by  your 
feebleness  of  resolution,  that,  it  has  been  your  preserva- 
tion from  you  know  not  what  dejjths  of  shame  and  nnsery, 
that  you  never  were  pressed  very  hard  by  temptation. 
Do  not  range  yourself  with  those  who  found  fault  with  a 
certain  great  and  good  Teacher  of  former  days,  because 
he  went  to  be  guest  with  a  man  that  was  a  sinner.  As  if 
He  could  have  gone  to  be  guest  with  any  man  who  was 
not! 

There  is  no  reckoning  up  the  manifoM  impedimenta  by 
which  human  beings  are  weighted  for  the  race  of  life; 
but  all  may  be  classified  under  the  two  heads  of  unfavor- 
able influences  arising  out  of  the  mental  or  physical  na- 
ture of  the  human  being-  themselves,  and  unfavorable 
influences  arising  out  of  the  circumstances  in  which  the 
human  beings  are  placed.     You  have  known  men  who, 


CAItlilED    WEIGHT    IX    LIFE.  14i 

getting  out  from  a  very  humble  position,  liave  attained  to 
a  respectable  standing  :  but  who  would  have  reached  a 
very  much  higher  place  but  for  their  being  weighted  with 
a  vulgar,  violent,  wrong-headed,  and  rude-spoken  wife 
You  have  known  men  of  lowly  origin,  who  had  in  them 
I  lie  makings  of  gentlemen  ;  but  whom  this  single  malign 
influence  has  condemned  to  coarse  manners  and  a  frowsy 
repulsive  home  for  life.  You  have  known  many  men 
wliose  powers  are  cripjjlcd  and  their  nature  soured  by 
poverty  ;  by  the  heavy  necessity  tor  calculaling  how  far 
each  shilling  will  go  ;  by  a  certain  sense  of  degradation 
that  comes  of  sordid  shifls.  How  can  a  poor  parson 
write  an  eloquent  or  spirited  sermon,  when  his  mind  all 
the  while  is  running  upon  the  thought  how  he  is  to  pay 
the  baker,  or  how  he  is  to  get  shoes  for  his  children  ?  It 
will  be  but  a  dull  discourse  which,  under  that  weight,  will 
be  produced  even  Ijy  a  man  who,  favorably  placed,  could 
have  done  vei-y  consid(naI)le  things.  It  is  only  a  great 
genius  here  and  there  who  can  do  great  things,  who  can 
do  his  best,  no  matter  at  what  disadvantage  he  may  be 
placed  ;  the  great  mass  of  ordinary  men  can  make  little 
headway  with  wind  and  tide  dead  against  them.  Not 
many  Irees  would  grow  well  if  watered  daily  (let  us  say) 
with  vitriol.  Yet  a  tree  which  would  speedih"  die  under 
that  nurture,  might  do  very  fairly,  might  even  do  magnifi- 
ct  iitly,  if  it  had  fiiir  ])lay  ;  if  it  got  its  chance  of  common 
sunshine  and  shower.  Some  men,  indeed,  though  always 
hampered  by  circumstances,  have  accomplished  much; 
but  then  you  cannot  help  thinking  how  much  more  they 
might  have  accomplished  had  ihey  been  placed  more  hap- 
pily. Pugin.  the  great  Gothic  architect,  designed  vari- 
ous noble  buildings  ;  but  I  believe  he  complained  that  he 
never  had  fair  play  with  his  finest:  that  he  was  always 


142  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  WHO 

weighted  by  considerations  of  expense,  or  by  the  natui>3 
of"  the  ground  he  had  to  build  on,  or  by  the  number  of 
peoj)le  it  was  essential  tiie  building  shoidd  aceommodate. 
And  so  he  regarded  his  noblest  edifices  as  no  more  than 
hints  of  what  he  could  have  done.  He  made  grand  run- 
ning in  the  race;  but  oh  what  running  lie  could  have 
made  if  you  had  taken  olf  those  twelve  additional  pounds! 
I  daie  say  you  have  known  men  who  labored  to  make  a 
pretty  country-house  on  a  site  which  had  some  one  great 
drawJback.  They  were  always  battling  with  that  di-aw- 
back,  and  trying  to  conquer  it  ;  but  they  never  could 
quite  succeed.  And  it  remained  a  real  worry  and  vexa- 
tion. Their  house  was  on  ihe  north  side  of  a  high  hill, 
and  never  could  have  its  due  share  of  sunshine.  Or  you 
could  not  reach  it  but  by  climbing  a  very  steep  ascent ; 
or  you  could  not  in  any  way  get  water  into  the  landscape. 
"When  Sir  AValter  was  at  lenglh  able  to  call  his  own  ? 
little  estate  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed  he  loved  so  well 
it  was  the  ugliest,  bleake.-t,  and  least  interesting  spot  up- 
on the  course  of  that  beautiful  river;  and  the  public  road 
ran  within  a  few  yards  of  his  door.  The  noble-hearted 
man  made  a  charming  dwelling  at  last ;  but  he  was  fight- 
ing against  nature  in  the  matter  of  the  landscape  round 
it  ;  and  you  can  see  yet,  many  a  year  after  he  left  it,  the 
poor  little  trees  of  his  beloved  plantations,  contrasting 
with  the  magnificent  timber  of  various  grand  old  places 
above  and  Ijelow  Abbot.-ford.  There  is  something  saddei 
in  the  sight  of  men  who  carried  weiglit  wiiliin  themselves; 
and  who,  in  aiming  at  usefulness  or  at  happiness,  were 
hampered  and  held  back  by  their  own  nature.  There 
are  many  men  who  are  weighted  with  a  hasty  temper; 
weighted  with  a  nervous,  anxious  constitution  ;  weighted 
with  an  envious,  jealous  disposition  ;    weighted   with  a 


CARRIED  WEIGHT   IN   LIFE.  14J 

strong  tondoncy  to  evil  speaking,  lying,  and  slander- 
ing ;  wei"hted  witli  a  ";rumblino:,  sour,  discontented  spir- 
it;  weiglited  witli  a  disposition  to  vapoi-ing  and  boasting; 
weighted  with  a  great  want  of  common  sense ;  weighted 
with  an  undue  regard  to  what  other  people  may  be  think 
ing  or  saying  of  them  ;  weighted  with  many  like  thingt 
of  which  more  will  be  said  by  and  bye.  AVhen  that  good 
missionary,  Henry  Martyn,  was  in  India,  he  was  weighted 
with  an  irresistible  drowsiness.  He  could  hardly  keep 
himself  awake.  And  it  must  have  been  a  burning  ear- 
nestness that  impelled  him  to  ceaseless  labor,  iu  the  pres- 
ence of  such  a  drag-weight  as  that.  I  am  not  thinking 
or  saying,  my  friend,  that  it  is  wholly  bad  for  us  to  carry 
M-eight  ;  that  great  good  may  not  come  of  the  abatement 
of  our  power  and  s[)irit  which  may  be  made  by  that 
weight.  I  remember  a  greater  missionary  than  even  the 
sainted  Martyn,  to  whom  the  Wisest  and  Kindest  ap- 
pointed that  he  should  carry  weight,  and  that  he  should 
fight  at  a  sad  disadvantage.  And  the  greater  missionary 
tells  us  that  he  knew  why  that  weight  was  appointed  him 
to  carry  ;  and  that  he  felt  he  needed  it  all  to  save  hira 
from  a  strong  tendency  to  undue  self-conceit.  No  one 
knows,  now,  what  the  burden  was  whicii  he  bore  ;  but  it 
was  heavy  and  painful ;  it  was  *'  a  thorn  in  the  flesli  ; '' 
three  times  he  earnestly  asked  that  it  might  be  taken 
away  ;  but  the  answer  he  got  implied  that  he  needed  it 
yet ;  and  liiat  his  Master  thought  it  a  better  plan  to 
strengthen  the  back  than  to  lighten  the  burden.  Yes, 
the  blessed  Redeemer  appointed  that  St.  Paul  should 
carry  weight  in  life  ;  and  1  think,  friendly  reader,  that  we 
shall  believe  that  i'  is  wisely  and  kindly  meant,  if  the 
like  should  come  to  you  and  me. 

"We  all    understand  what  is    meant  when  we  hear  it 


144  CONCERXIXG   PEOPLE  WHO 

is  said  lh;it  a  man  is  doing  vi'vy  well,  or  has  done  very 
\\('\\,  considfriiif/.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  a  Si'Ot- 
lirisni  to  stop  sliort  at  thiit  |iO!nt  of  the  sentence.  A7e 
do  it,  coii.-taiitly,  in  this  country  :  tlie  sentence  would  be 
completed  by  saying,  considering  the  weight  he  has  to 
carry,  or  tlie  disadvantage  at  which  he  works.  And  things 
wliich  are  very  good,  considering,  may  lange  very  far  up 
and  down  the  scale  of  actual  merit.  A  thing  wiiich  is 
t^ery  good,  considering,  may  be  very  bad,  or  may  be  tol- 
erably good.  It  never  can  be  absolutely  very  good  ;  for, 
if  it  were,  you  would  cease  to  use  the  word  considering. 
A  thing  whicli  is  absolutely  very  good,  if  it  have  been 
done  under  extremely  unfavorable  circumstances,  would 
not  be  described  as  very  good,  considering  ;  it  would  be  de- 
scribed as  quite  wonderful,  considering,  or  as  miraculous 
considering.  And  it  is  curious  how  people  take  a  pride 
in  accumulating  unfavorable  circum-^tances,  that  they  may 
overcome  them,  and  gain  the  glory  of  having  overcome 
them.  Thus,  if  a  man  wishes  to  sign  his  name,  he  might 
write  the  letters  with  his  right  hand  ;  and  tiiough  he  write 
them  very  clearly  and  well  and  rapidly,  nobody  woidd  think 
of  giving  liiui  any  credit.  IJut  if  he  write  iiis  naint;  rather 
badly  with  ins  left  iiand,  people  would  say  it  was  a  remark- 
al)Ie  signature,  considering.  And  if  he  wrote  his  name, 
veiy  ill  indeed,  wiili  his  foot,  people  would  say  the  writing 
was  rpiite  wonderful,  considering.  If  a  man  desire  to  walk 
from  one  end  of  a  long  building,  to  the  other,  he  might  do 
j5o  by  walking  along  the  floor  ;  and  though  he  did  so  stead- 
ily, swifdy,  and  gracefully,  no  one  would  remai'k  that  he 
had  done  anything  worth  notice*,  lint  if  he  i-lioo'-e  for  his 
patli  a  thick  rope,  (jxtended  i'rom  one  end  of  tlie  building 
to  the  other,  at  a  height  of  a  hundred  feet ;  and  if  he  walk 
rather  slowly  and  awkwardly  along  it,  he  will  be  esteemed 


cakkii:d  weight  in  life.  145 

as  liaving  done  something  very  extraordinary  ;  while  it",  in 
addition  to  this,  he  is  blindfolded,  and  has  his  feet  placed 
in  large  baskets   instead  of  shoes,  he  will,  if  in  any  way 
lie   can  get   over  the   distance  between  the  ends  of  the 
building,  be  held  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of 
the  age.     Yes,  load  yourself  with  weight  whicii  no  one 
a.-ks  you  to  carry  :  accumulate  disadvantages  which  you 
need  not  face  unless  you  choo>e ;  then  carry  the  weight  in 
any  fashion,  and  overcome  the  disadvantages  in  any  fash- 
ion ;  and  you  are  a  great  man,  considering ;  that  is,  con- 
sidering the  disadvantages  and  the  weight.     Let  this  be 
remembered  :  if  a  man  is  so  placed  that  he  cannot  do  his 
work,  except  in  the  face  of  special  diflicuUies,  then  let  hira 
be  praised  if  he  vanquish  these  in  some  decent  measure, 
and  if  he  do  his  woik  tolerably   well.     But  a  man  de- 
serves no  praise  at  all  for  work  which  he  has  done  tolera- 
bly or  done  rather  badly,  because  he  chose  to  do  it  under 
disadvantageous  circuni.-tances,  under  which  there  was  no 
earthly  call  upon  liini  to  do  it.     In  this  case  he  prob:ibly 
is  a  self-conceited  man,  or  a  man  of  wrong-headed  inde- 
pendence of  disposition  ;  and  in  this  case,  if  his  work  be 
bad  absolutely,  don't  tell  him  that  it  is  good,  considering. 
Refuse  to  consider.     He  lias  no  right  to  expect  that  you 
should.    There  was  a  man  who  built  a  house  entirely  with 
his  own  hands.     He  had  never  learned  either  mason  work 
or  carpentry  :  he  could  quite  W(dl  have  afforded  to  pay 
skilled   workmen   to  do   the   work  he  wanted  ;  but  he  did 
not  choose  to  do   so.      He   did   tlie   whole   work    himself. 
The  house  was  finished  :  its  aspect  was  peculiar.     The 
walls  were  off  the  perpendicular  considerably,  and  the 
windows  were  singular  in  shape,  the  doors   litted   badly 
and  the  floors   were  far  I'rom   level.      In  short,  it   was  a 
very  bad  and  awkward-looking  hou^e  ;  but  it  was  a  won- 
10 


146  COXCKIJNIXG    PKOI'LE   WHO 

derful  house,  consiilcrinp;.  And  people  said  that  it  waa 
fo,  who  saw  nothing  woiiderfiil  in  tlie  beautiful  house 
next  it,  perfect  in  symmetry  and  fini.-h  and  comfort,  but 
built  by  men  whose  business  it  was  to  build.  Now,  1 
should  have  declined  to  admire  that  odd  house,  or  to  (!X- 
press  the  least  sympatliy  with  its  builder.  He  chose  (o 
run  with  a  needless  lamdredweiglit  on  his  back:  he  clic^fi 
to  walk  in  baskets  instead  of  in  shoes.  And  if,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  own  perversity,  he  did  his  work  badly,  I 
should  have  refused  to  i-ecognize  it  as  anything  but  bad 
work.  It  was  quite  different  with  Robinson  Crusoe,  who 
made  his  dwelling  and  his  furniture  for  iiirnself,  because 
there  was  no  one  else  to  make  them  for  iiim  I  dare  say 
liis  cave  was  anything  but  exactly  s({uare,  and  his  ciiaii-s 
and  tables  were  cumbrous  enough  ;  but  tliey  were  wonder- 
ful, considering  certain  facts  \\<Jiich  he  was  quite  entitled  to 
(■x[)cct  us  to  con-ider.  Southey's  Cottonian  Library  was 
all  quite  right;  and  you  would  have  said  that  the  books 
were  very  nicely  bound,  considering;  for  Soulhey  could 
not  afford  to  pay  the  regular  binder's  charges  ;  and  it  was 
better  tiiat  his  books  should  be  done  up  in  cotton  of 
various  hues  by  the  nicmljers  of  iiis  own  family,  than 
that  they  should  I'emain  not  bound  at  all.  You  will 
think,  too,  of  the  poor  old  parson  who  wrote  a  book 
whicji  Ik;  thought  of  great  value,  but  wiiich  no  pub- 
islier  would  bring  out.  lie  was  determined  tluU  all 
his  labor  should  not  be  lost  to  posterity.  So  lie  ijoughl 
types  and  a  printing-press,  and  printed  his  precious  woik, 
poor  man  ;  he  and  his  man-servant  did  it  all.  It  made  a 
great  many  volumes ;  and  the  task  took  u[)  many  years. 
Then  he  bound  the  volumes  with  his  own  hands ;  and 
carrying  them  to  London,  he  placed  a  copy  of  his  work 
in  each  of  the  public  libraries.     1  dare  say  lie  might  Live 


CARRIED   WEIGHT   IX   LIFE.  147 

saved  liim«:elf  liis  labor.  How  many  of  my  readers  could 
tell  what  was  the  title  of  the  work,  or  what  was  the  name 
of  its  author  ?  Still,  there  was  a  man  who  accomplished 
his  design,  in  the  face  of  every  disadvantage. 

There  is  a  great  point  of  difference  between  our  feel- 
ing towards  the  human  being  who  runs  his  race  much 
overweighted,  and  our  feeling  towards  tlie  inferior  animal 
that  does  the  like.  If  you  saw  a  poor  horse  gamely 
struggling  in  a  race,  with  a  weight  of  a  ton  extra,  you 
would  pity  it.  Your  sympathies  would  all  be  with  the 
creature  that  was  making  (he  best  of  unfavorable  circum- 
stances. But  it  is  a  sorrowful  fact,  that  the  drag  weight 
of  human  beings  not  unfrequently  consists  of  things  which 
make  us  angry  rather  than  sympathetic.  You  have  seen 
a  man  carrying  heavy  weight  in  life,  perhaps  in  the  form 
of  inveterate  wronglieadedness  and  suspiciousness  ;  but 
instead  of  pitying  liim,  our  impulse  woidd  rather  be  to 
beat  him  u])on  that  perverted  heail.  We  pily  physical 
malformation  or  mdicalliiiiiess ;  l)ut  oiir  l)ent  is  to  be 
angry  with  intellectual  and  moral  nialforniation  or  un- 
heallhiness.  We  feel  for  the  deformed  man,  who  must 
struggle  on  at  that  sad  disadvantage  ;  feeling  it,  too, 
much  more  acutely  than  you  woidd  readily  believe.  But 
we  have  only  indignation  for  the  man  weighted  with  far 
worse  things  ;  and  things  wliich,  in  some  cases  :it  least, 
he  can  just  as  little  help.  You  have  known  men  whose 
e.\tra  poinids,  or  tncn  extra  ton,  was  ;i  hasty  temper.  Hy- 
ing out  of  a  sudden  into  ungovernable  l)ursts:  or  a  moral 
cowardice  leading  to  trickery  and  falsehood  :  or  a  special 
disposition  to  envy  and  evil  speaking:  or  a  very  .strong 
tendency  to  morbid  complaining  about  his  misfortunes  and 
troubles  :  or  an  invincible  bent  to  be  always  talking  of 


148  coxcKRXixr;  PEori-E  who 

liis  sufferings  tlimiii:li  the  dorantjcmcnt  ot"  lii.s  rligestivc 
orpins.  Now,  yon  grow  angiy  at  these  things.  You 
cnniiot  stand  tliein.  And  there  is  a  substratum  of  truth 
to  tliat  angry  feeling.  A  man  can  foim  his  mind  more 
than  lie  can  form  his  body.  If  a  man  be  well-made, 
physieally,  he  will,  in  ordinary  cases,  remain  so  :  but  he 
may,  in  a  moral  sense,  raise  a  great  hunchback  where 
nature  made  none.  He  may  foster  a  malignant  temper, 
a  gnnnbling,  fretful  spirit,  which  by  miinful  resistatice 
might  be  much  abated,  if  not  quite  put  down.  But  still, 
tliere  should  often  be  pity,  where  we  are  prone  only  to 
blame.  We  find  a  i)er.s()n  in  whom  a  iruly  disgusting 
ciiaracter  has  been  formed  :  well,  if  you  knew  all,  you 
would  know  that  the  person  had  hardly  a  (;hance  of  being 
otherwise:  the  man  could  not  help  it.  You  have  known 
]>eople  who  were  awfully  unamiable  and  repul-ive  :  you 
may  have  been  told  how  very  difTcKent  ihey  once  were, 
—  sweet-tempered  and  cheerful.  And  surely  the  change 
is  a  far  sadder  one  than  that  which  has  passed  upon  the 
wrinkled  old  woman,  who  was  once  (as  you  are  told)  the 
loveliest  girl  of  her  time.  Yet  many  a  one  who  will  look 
with  interest  upon  the  withered  face  and  the  dimmed 
eyes,  and  try  to  trace  in  them  the  vestiges  of  radiant 
beauty  gone,  will  never  think  of  puzzling  out  in  violent 
spurts  of  petulance  the  perversion  of  a  quick  and  kind 
hcari  ;  or  in  curious  oddities  and  pettinesses  the  result  of 
long  and  lonely  years  of  toil  in  which  no  one  sympa- 
thized ;  or  in  cynical  bitterness  and  misanthropy,  an  old 
disappointment  never  got  over.  Tliere  is  a  hard  knot  in 
the  wood,  where  a  green  young  branch  was  lopped  away. 
I  have  a  great  pity  for  old  bachelors.  Tiiose  I  have 
known  have  for  the  most  part  been  old  fools.  But  the 
more  foolish  and  absurd  they  are,  the  more  pity  is  due  to 


CARlilEU   WKIGHT  IN  LIFE.  149 

them.  I  believe  tliere  is  something;  to  be  said  for  evert 
the  mo~t  unamiable  crmitures.  The  sliark  is  an  unamia- 
ble  creature.  It  i.s  voracious.  It  will  snap  a  man  in 
two.  Yet  it  is  not  unworthy  of  sympathy.  Its  organiz- 
ation is  such  that  it  is  always  suffering  the  most  ravenous 
hunger.  You  can  hardly  imagine  the  state  of  intolerable 
famine  in  which  that  imhap[)y  animal  roams  the  ocean. 
People  talk  of  its  awful  teeth  and  its  vindictive  eye.  I 
suppose  it  is  well  ascertained  that  the  exti'einity  of  physi- 
cal want,  as  reached  on  rafis  at  sea,  has  driven  humaa 
beings  to  deeds  as  barljarous  as  ever  siiark  was  accused 
of.  The  worse  a  human  being  is,  the  more  he  deserves 
our  pity.  Hang  him,  if  that  be  needful  for  the  welfare 
of  society  ;  but  pity  him  even  as  you  hang.  IMany  a 
poor  creature  has  gradually  become  hardened  and  invet- 
erate in  guilt,  who  would  have  shuddered  at  first  had  the 
excess  of  it  ultimately  reached  been  at  first  presented  to 
view.  But  the  precipice  was  sloped  off:  the  descent  was 
made  step  by  step.  And  there  is  many  a  human  being 
who  never  had  a  chance  of  being  good  :  many  who  have 
been  trained,  and  even  compelled,  to  evil  from  very  in- 
fancy. "Who  that  knows  anylhing  of  our  great  cities, 
but  knows  how  the  poor  little  child,  the  toddling  innocent, 
is  sometimes  sent  out  day  by  day  to  steal  ;  and  received 
in  his  wietehed  lionie  wilh  blows  and  curses  if  he  lail  lo 
bring  back  eiiougii :  who  has  not  heard  of  such  poor  little 
things,  unsuccessful  in  their  sorry  work, sleeping  all  night 
in  some  wintry  stair,  because  they  durst  not  venture  back 
to  their  drunken,  miserable,  desperate  parents?  I  could 
tell  things  at  which  angels  might  shed  tears,  with  much 
better  reason  for  doing  so  than  seems  to  me  to  exi.-t  in 
some  of  those  more  imposing  occasions  on  which  bom- 
bastic writers  are  wont  to  describe  them  as  weeping.    Ah. 


150  CONCERNIXG   PEOPLE   WHO 

there  is  One  who  knows  whei'e  tlie  responsibility  for  all 
this  rests!  Not.  wholly  wilh  the  wretclied  parents:  far 
from  tliat.  They,  too,  have  gone  through  the  like  :  they 
had  as  little  chance  as  their  children.  IViey  deserve  our 
diiepest  pity  too.  Perhaps  the  deeper  pity  is  not  due  to 
the  shivering,  starving  child,  with  the  bitter  wind  cutting 
through  its  thin  rags,  and  its  blue  feet  on  the  frozen  pave- 
ment, holding  out  a  hand  that  is  like  the  claw  of  some 
beast,  but  i-ather  to  the  l)rutalized  mother  who  could  thus 
i-end  out  the  infant  she  bore.  Surely  the  moth(;r's  condi- 
tion, if  we  look  at  the  ca<e  aright,  is  the  more  deplorable. 
Would  not  you,  my  reader,  i-ather  endure  any  degree  of 
cold  and  hunger  than  come  to  this  !  Doubtless,  there  is 
blame  somcwlKjre  that  such  things  should  be  :  but  we  all 
know  that  the  blame  of  ihe  most  miserable  [)ractical  evils 
and  failures  can  hardly  be  traced  to  paiticular  individuals. 
It  is  through  the  incapacity  of  scoi-es  of  public  servants 
that  an  army  is  starved.  It  is  through  the  fault  of  mil- 
lions of  people  that  our  great  towns  an;  what  they  are: 
and  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  actual  responsibility  is 
si)read  so  thinly  over  so  great  a  surface,  that  it  is  hard  to 
say  it  rests  very  blackly  upon  any  one  spot.  Oh,  that  we 
could  but  know  whom  to  hang,  when  we  find  some  fla- 
grant, crying  evil  !  Unluckily,  hasty  people  are  ready  to 
be  content  if  they  can  but  hang  anybody,  without  mind- 
ing much  whether  that  individual  be  more  to  blame  tluin 
many  beside.  Laws  and  kings  have  something  to  do 
here  :  but  manngement  and  foresight  on  the  part  of  the 
jjoorer  classes  have  a  great  deal  more  to  do.  And  no 
laws  can  m;ike  many  persons  managing  or  provident.  I 
do  not  he.-itate  to  say,  fiom  what  1  have  myself  seen  of 
the  poor,  that  the  same  short-sighied  extravagnnce,  the 
same  recklessness  of  consequences,  which  are  frequently 


CARRIKD   WEIGHT   IN  LIFE.  151 

foi:nc]  in  tiiem,  woiikl  cause  quite  as  much  miser}^  if  they 
prevailed  in  a  litte  degree  among  people  with  a  thou -and 
a-year.  But  it  seems  as  if  only  tolerably  well-to-do  peo- 
ple have  the  heart  to  be  provident  and  self-denying.  A 
man  with  a  few  hundreds  annually  does  not  marry  unless 
he  thinks  he  can  afford  it  :  but  the  workman  with  fifteen 
shillings  a-week  is  profoundly  indifferent  to  any  such  cal- 
culation. I  firmly  believe  that  the  sternest  of  all  self- 
denial  is  that  practised  by  those  who,  when  we  divide 
mankind  into  rich  and  poor,  must  be  classed  (I  suppose) 
with  the  rich.  But  I  turn  away  from  a  miserable  sub- 
ject, tlirough  which  I  cannot  see  my  way  clearly,  and  on 
which  I  cannot  think  but  with  unutterable  pain.  It  is  an 
easy  way  of  cutting  the  knot  to  declare  that  the  rich  are 
the  cause  of  all  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  ;  but  when  we 
look  at  the  case  in  all  its  bearings,  we  shall  see  that  that 
is  rank  nonsense.  And  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  unques- 
tionable that  the  rich  are  boinid  to  do  something.  But 
"what?  I  >houlil  feel  deeply  indebted  to  any  one  who 
would  wi'ite  out,  in  a  few  short  and  intelligible  sentences, 
the  practical  results  that  are  aimed  at  in  the  Song  of  the 
Shirt.  Tiie  misery  and  evil  are  manifest  :  but  tell  us 
whom  to  hang  ;  tell  us  what  to  do  ! 

One  heavy  burden  with  which  many  men  are  weighted 
for  the  race  of  life,  is  depression  of  spirits.  I  wonder 
whether  this  used  to  be  as  common  in  former  days  as  it 
is  now.  There  was,  indeed,  the  man  in  Homer,  who 
walked  by  the  sea-shore  in  a  very  gloomy  mood  ;  but 
his  case  seems  to  have  been  thought  remarkable.  What 
is  it  in  our  modern  mode  of  life,  and  our  inlinity  of  cares; 
what  little  thing  is  it  about  the  matter  of  the  brain,  or  the 
flow  of  the  blood,  that  makes  the  difference  betwi^en  buoy- 


152  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  WHO 

ant  cheerfulness  and  doep  depression  ?  I  bogin  to  think 
that  almost  all  educated  people,  and  especially  all  whose 
work  is  mental  rather  than  phy.-ical,  snflTer  more  or  less 
fiom  this  indescribable  gloom.  And  although  a  certain 
amount  of  sentimental  sadness  may  possibly  help  the 
poet,  or  the  imaginative  Avriter,  to  produce  malerial  whirh 
may  be  \ery  attractive  to  the  young  and  inexperienced,  I 
suppose  it  will  be  admitted  i)y  all  that  cheerfulness  and 
hopefulness  are  noi)le  and  hcaltliful  stimulants  to  worthy 
elfort,  and  that  depression  of  spirits  does  (so  to  speak) 
cut  the  sinews  with  which  the  average  man  must  do  the 
work  of  life.  You  know  how  lighlly  the  buoyant  heart 
carries  people  through  entanglements  ;ind  laboi-s  under 
which  the  desponding  would  break  down,  or  which  they 
never  would  face.  Yet,  in  thinking  of  the  commonness 
of  depressed  spirits,  even  where  the  mind  is  otherwise 
very  iree  from  anything  morbid,  we  should  remember 
that  there  is  a  strong  temptation  to  believe  that  this  de- 
pression is  more  common  and  more  prevalent  than  if 
truly  is.  Sometimes  there  is  a  gloom  which  overcasts 
all  life,  like  that  in  which  James  "Watt  lived  and  worked, 
and  served  his  race  so  nobly  ;  like  that  from  which  the 
gentli',  amiable  ])oet,  James  Montgomery,  suffered  through 
his  whole  career.  But  in  ordinary  cases  the  gloom  is 
temporary  and  transient.  Even  the  most  depressed  arc 
not  always  so.  Like,  we  know,  sugge-ts  like  powerfully. 
If  you  are  placed  in  some  [)eculiar  conjuncture  of  circum- 
stances, or  if  you  pass  through  some  i-emarkable  scene, 
the  present  scene  or  conjuncture  will  call  up  before  you 
in  a  way  that  startles  you,  something  like  itself  which 
you  had  long  forgotten,  and  wliich  you  would  never  have 
rem(imbered  but  for  this  touch  of  some  mysterious  spring. 
And  accordingly,  a  man  depressed  in  spirits  thinks  that 


CARRIED   WEIGHT   IX  LIFE.  152 

he  is  always  so,  or  at  lea-t  fancies  that  such  depression 
has  cjiven  the  color  to  his  lite  in  a  very  much  greater 
degree  than  it  actually  has  done  so.  For  this  dark  sea- 
son wakens  up  tlie  remembrance  of  many  similar  dark 
seasons  which  in  more  cheerful  days  are  quite  Ibrgot,  and 
these  cheerful  days  drop  out  of  memory  for  the  time. 
Hearing  such  a  man  speak,  if  he  speak  out  his  heart  to 
you,  you  think  him  inconsistent,  perhaps  you  think  him 
insincere.  You  think  he  is  saying  more  than  he  truly 
feels.  It  is  not  so  ;  he  feels  and  believes  it  all  at  the 
time.  But  he  is  taking  a  one-sided  view  of  things  :  he  is 
undergoing  the  misery  of  it  acutely  for  the  time  :  by  and 
bye  he  will  see  things  from  quite  a  different  point.  A 
very  eminent  man  (there  can  be  no  harm  in  referring 
to  a  case  which  he  himself  made  so  pul)lic)  wrote  and 
published  something  about  his  miserable  home.  He  was 
quite  sincere,  I  do  not  doubt.  He  tiiought  so  at  the  time. 
He  was  miserable  just  then  ;  and  so,  looking  back  on  past 
years,  he  could  see  nothing  but  misery.  But  the  case  was 
not  really  so,  one  could  feel  sure.  There  had  been  a  vast 
deal  of  enjoyment  about  his  home  and  his  lot ;  it  was  for- 
gotten, then.  A  man  in  very  low  spirits,  reading  over  his 
diary,  somehow  liglits  upon  and  dwells  upon  all  the  sad 
and  wounding  things  ;  he  involuntarily  skips  the  rest,  or 
reads  them  with  but  faint  perception  of  their  meaning. 
In  reading  the  very  Bilile,  he  does  the  like  thing.  He 
chances  upon  that  which  is  in  unison  with  his  present 
mood.  I  think  there  is  no  respect  in  wiiich  this  great 
law  of  the  association  of  ideas  holds  more  strictly  true, 
than  in  the  power  of  a  pre.-ent  stale  of  mind,  or  a  pres- 
ent state  of  outward  circumstances,  to  bring  up  vividly 
before  us  all  such  states  in  our  past  history.  We  are 
depressed,  we  arc  worried ;  and  when  we  look  back,  all 


154  CONCERNING   PEOPLE  WHO 

our  departed  days  of  woiry  and  depression  appear  to 
start  u|)  and  pirss  themselves  upon  our  view  to  tlie  ex- 
clusion of  anytliing  else:  so  that  we  are  ready  to  think 
that  we  have  never  been  otherwise  than  depressed  and 
worried  all  our  life.  But  when  more  cheerful  times 
come,  they  sugujest  only  such  times  of  cheerfulness,  and 
no  effort  will  bring  back  the  de|)ression  vividly  as  when 
we  felt  it.  It  is  not  selfishness  or  heartlessness,  it  is  the 
result  of  an  inevitaljle  law  of  mind,  that  people  in  happy 
circumstances  siionld  resolutely  believe  that  it  is  a  happy 
world  after  all  ;  for  looking  back,  and  looking  around,  the 
mind  refuses  to  take  distinct  note  of  anytliing  that  is  not 
somewhat  akin  to  ils  present  state.  And  so,  if  any  ordi- 
nary man,  wlio  is  nut  a  distempered  genius  or  a  great  fool, 
tells  you  that  he  is  always  miserable,  don't  believe  him. 
He  f(;els  so  now,  but  he  does  not  always  feel  so.  There 
are  periods  of  briglilciiing  in  the  darkest  lot.  Very, 
very  few  live  in  unvarying  gloom.  Not  but  what  then; 
IS  something  very  pitiful  (by  which  I  mean  deserving  of 
pity)  in  what  may  be  tei-med  the  Mieawber  style  of 
mind  ;  in  the  stage  of  hysteric  oscillations  between  joy 
and  miseiy.  Thoughtless  readers  of  David  Copperfield 
laugh  at  Mr.  Mieawber,  and  his  I'apid  passages  fi-om  the 
depth  of  despair  to  the  summit  of  happiness,  and  back 
again,  liut  if  you  have  se(;n  or  experienced  that  mor- 
bid condition,  you  would  know  that  there  is  more  reason 
to  mourn  over  it  than  to  laugh  at  it.  There  is  acute 
misery  felt  now  and  then  ;  and  there  is  a  p(;r\ading, 
never-departing  sense  of  the  hoUowness  of  the  morbid 
mirth.  It  is  but  a  vary  f\i\v  dr-grees  better  than  "  moody 
madness,  laughing  wild,  amid  severest  woe."  liy  depres- 
sion of  spirits,  I  understand  a  dejection  without  any 
cause   that  could   be  stated,  or  from  causes  which  in  a 


CARRIED   WEIGHT   IN    LIFE.  155 

liealtliy  mind  would  produce  no  such  d(^gree  of  dejec- 
tion. No  doubt  many  men  can  remember  seasons  of  de- 
jection which  was  not  iniagiiiaiy,  and  of  anxiety  and 
misery  whose  causes  were  only  too  real.  You  can  re- 
member, perhaps,  the  dark  time  in  which  you  knew  quite 
well  wliat  it  was  that  made  it  so  dark.  Well,  better  days 
have  come.  That  sorrowful,  wearing  time,  which  ex° 
hausted  the  sj)i-ings  of  life  faster  than  ordinary  living 
would  have  done,  which  aged  you  in  heart  and  irame 
before  your  day,  dragged  over,  and  it  is  gone.  You 
carried  heavy  weight,  indeed,  while  it  lasted.  It  was 
but  poor  running  you  made,  poor  work  you  did,  with 
that  feeble,  anxious,  disappointed,  misei-abh;  heart.  And 
you  would  many  a  time  have  been  thankful  to  cree])  into 
a  quiet  grave.  Perhaps  that  season  did  you  good.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  discipline  you  needed.  Perhaps  it  took 
out  your  self-conceit,  and  made  you  humble.  Perhaps 
it  disposed  you  to  feel  for  the  grief  and  cares  of  others, 
and  made  you  sympathetic.  Perliaps,  looking  back  now, 
you  can  discern  the  end  it  served.  And  now  that  it  has 
done  its  work,  and  that  it  only  stings  you  when  you  look 
back,  let  that  time  be  quite  forgotten  ! 

There  are  men,  and  very  clever  ukmi,  who  do  the  woi-k 
of  life  at  a  disadvantage,  through  this,  that  their  mind  is 
a  machine  lilteil  for  doing  well  only  one  kind  of  work;  or 
that  their  mind  is  a  machine  which,  though  doing  many 
tilings  well,  does  some  one  thing,  ])erha|)S  a  conspicnouij 
thing,  very  poorly.  You  find  it  hard  to  give  a  man 
credit  for  being  possessed  of  sense  and  talent,  if  y  )U 
hear  iiim  make  a  speech  at  a  jiublic  dinner,  which  speech 
K|)proaches  the  idiotic  (or  its  silliness  and  confusion. 
And  the  vulgar  mind  readily  concludes  that  lie  who  does 


15G  CONCERNING   PEOPLE  WHO 

one  \\\\n^  extremely  ill,  can  do  iiotliin^x  well  ;  and  that 
lie  wlio  is  ignorant  on  one  point,  is  ignorant  on  all.  A 
friend  of  mine,  a  country  parson,  on  first  going  to  his 
parish,  resolved  to  farm  his  glebe  for  himself.  A  neigh- 
boring farmer  kindiv  od'ered  the  paison  to  plough  one  of 
his  fields.  Tiie  farmer  said  that  lie  would  send  his  man 
John  with  a  plough  and  a  pair  of  iiorses  on  a  certain 
day.  "  If  ye  're  goin'  aboot,"  said  tlie  farmer  to  the 
clergyman,  "John  will  Ije  unco'  wcel  |)l('a-ed  if  you 
speak  to  him,  and  say  it's  a  fine  day,  or  the  like  o' 
that ;  but  dinna,"  said  the  farmer,  with  much  solemnity, 
"  dinna  say  onything  to  him  aboot  ploiighin'  and  sawin' ; 
for  John,"  he  added,  "  is  a  stupid  body,  but  he  has  been 
ploughin'  and  sawin'  all  his  life,  and  he'll  see  in  a  min- 
ute that  1/e  ken  naething  aboot  ploughin'  and  sawin'. 
And  then,"  said  the  sagacious  old  farmer,  with  extreme 
earnestness,  "if  he  comes  to  think  that  ye  ken  naething 
aboot  ploughin'  and  sawin',  he'll  think  that  ye  ken  nae- 
thing aboot  onything  !  "  Yes,  it  is  natural  to  us  all  to 
tliink  tliat  if  tli(3  machine  brtaks  down  at  that  work  in 
which  we  are  competent  to  test  it,  then  the  machine 
cannot  do  any  work  at  all. 

If  you  have  a  strong  current  of  water,  you  may  turn 
it  into  any  channel  you  please,  and  make  it  do  any  work 
you  please.  AVith  equal  energy  and  success  it  will  flow 
north  or  south  ;  it  will  turn  a  corn-mill,  or  a  threshing- 
machine,  or  a  grind-tone.  iNIany  people  live  under  a 
vague  impression  that  the  hnnian  mind  is  like  that. 
Ihey  think —  Here  is  so  much  ability,  so  much  energy, 
which  may  be  turned  in  any  direction,  and  made  to  do 
any  work;  and  they  are  surprised  to  find  that  the  power, 
available  and  great  for  one  kind  of  work,  is  worth  noth- 
ing for  another.     A  man  very  clever  at  one  thing,  is 


CARRIED   WEIGHT  IN   LIFE.  157 

no-:iiivfiy  weak  and  stupid  at  another  thing.  A  ver)' 
pood  judi^e  may  be  a  wretchedly  bad  joker;  and  he  mnst 
go  tliiouiih  his  career  at  this  disadvantage,  that  people, 
finding  iiim  silly  at  the  thing  they  are  able  to  estimate, 
fiiid  it  hard  to  believe  that  he  is  not  silly  at  everything. 
1  know  tor  myself  that  it  would  not  be  right  that  the 
Pi'c^niier  should  request  nic  to  look  out  for  a  suitable 
Chancellor.  I  am  not  competent  to  appreciate  the  depth 
of  a  man's  knowledge  of  equity  ;  by  which  I  do  not  mean 
justice,  but  chancery  law.  But  though  quite  unable  to 
understand  how  great  a  Chancellor  Lord  Eldon  was,  I 
am  quite  able  to  estimate  how  great  a  poet  he  was  ;  also 
how  great  a  wit.  Here  is  a  poem  by  that  eminent  per- 
son. Doubtless  he  regarded  it  as  a  wonder  of  happy 
versification,  as  well  as  instinct  with  the  most  convul-ing 
fun.  It  is  intended  to  set  out  in  a  metrical  form,  the 
career  of  a  certain  judge,  who  went  up  as  a  poor  lad 
from  Scotland  to  England,  but  did  well  at  the  bar,  and 
ultimately  found  his  ])lace  n])on  the  bench.  Here  is 
Lord   Chancellor  Kldou's  humorous  poem : 

James  Allan  Parke 
Came  naked  stark, 

From  Scotland: 
But  lie  got  clothes, 
Like  other  beaux, 

In  England! 

Now  the  fact  that  Loi-d  Eldon  wrote  that  poem,  and 
valued  it  highly,  would  lead  some  folk  to  suppose  that 
Lord  Eldon  was  next  door  to  an  idiot.  And  a  good 
many  other  things  which  that  Chancellor  did,  such  as 
his  quotations  from  Scripture  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  his  attempts  to  convince  that  assemblage  (when  At- 
torney-General) that  Napoleon   I.  was   the  Apocalyptic 


158        ■  CONCERNING  PEOPLE   WHO 

Beast  or  the  Little  Horn,  certainly  point  towards  the 
same  conclusion.  But  tlie  conclusion,  as  a  general  one, 
would  be  wrong.  No  doubt  Lord  Eldon  was  a  wise  and 
sajracious  man  as  judge  and  statesman,  though  as  wit  and 
poet  he  was  almost  an  idiot.  So  with  other  great  men. 
It  is  easy  to  remember  occasions  on  which  great  men 
have  done  very  {bolish  tiling-.  Tiicrc  never  was  a  truei 
hero  nor  a  greater  commander  than  Lord  N(ds<m  ;  but 
in  some  things  he  was  merely  an  awkward,  overgrown 
midshipinan.  But,  t'.ien,  let  us  remember,  that  a  locomo- 
tive engine,  though  exctdlent  at  miming,  would  be  a  ])Oor 
hand  at  flying.  That  is  not  its  vocation.  The  engine 
will  draw  fifteen  heavy  carriages  fifty  mdes  in  an  hour ; 
and  tJuit  remains  as  a  noble  feat,  even  though  it  be  as- 
certained that  the  engine  could  not  jump  over  a  brook 
wdiich  would  be  cleared  ea-ily  by  the  veriest  screw.  We, 
all  see  this.  But  many  of  us  have  a  confused  idea  that  a 
great  and  clever  man  is  (so  to  speak)  a  locomotive  tliat 
can  fly  ;  and  when  it  is  proved  that  Ik?  cannot  fly,  then 
we  begin  to  doubt  wlictiier  lie  can  even  run.  We  think 
1h!  should  be  good  at  everything,  whether  in  his  own  line 
or  not.  And  lie  is  set  at  a  di-advanlage,  particularly  in 
the  judgment  of  vulgar  and  stupid  people,  when  it  is 
clearly  ascertained  that  at  some  tilings  he  is  very  infe- 
rior. I  have  heard  of  a  very  eminent  preacher  who 
sunk  considerably  (even  as  regards  his  preaching)  in  the 
estimation  of  a  certain  family,  because  it  appeared  that 
lie  played  very  badly  at  l)owls.  And  we  all  know  that 
occasionally  the  Premicn-  ah-eady  mentioned  reverses  the 
vulgar  error,  and  in  appointing  men  to  great  places,  is 
guided  by  an  axiom  which  amounts  to  just  this:  this  loco- 
motive can  run  well,  therefore  it  will  fly  well.  This  man 
has  filled  a  certain  position  well,  therefore  let  us  appoin« 


CARRIED    WEIGHT    IN    LIFE.  159 

him  to  a  position  (^ntii'ely  different.  ;  no  donbt  li«  will  dn 
well  there  too.  Here  is  a  clergyman  wlio  has  edited  cer- 
tain Greek  plays  admirahly  :  let  us  make  him  a  bishop. 

It  may  be  remarked  here,  that  the  men  who  have  at- 
tained the  greatest  success  in  tlie  race  of  life,  have  gen^ 
(•rally  carried  weight.  Nitor  in  adcersum  might  be  tiie 
motto  of  many  a  man,  be.-ides  Burke.  It  seems  to  be 
almost  a  general  rule,  that  tlie  raw  material  out  of  which 
the  finest  fabrics  are  made,  should  look  very  little  like 
these,  to  start  with.  It  was  a  stammerer,  of  uneom 
manding  mien,  who  became  the  greatest  orator  of  grace- 
ful Greece.  I  believe  it  is  admitted  that  Chalmers  was 
the  most  effective  preacher,  perhaps  the  mo.-t  telling 
speaker,  that  Britain  has  seen  for  at  least  a  century  ;  yet 
his  aspect  was  not  dignified,  his  gestures  were  awkward, 
his  voice  wa-^  bad,  and  his  accent  frightful.  He  talked 
of  an  oppning  Avhen  he  meant  an  opening ;  and  he  read 
out  the  text  of  one  of  his  noblest  sermons,  "  He  that  is 
fulthy,  let  Iiim  Itc  fiilthy  ^tuU."  Yet  who  ever  thought 
of  these  things,  after  hearing  the  good  man  for  ten  min- 
utes! Aye,  load  Eclipse  wiili  what  extra  pounds  you 
might,  Eclipse  would  always  be  (ii'st  !  And,  to  descend 
to  the  race-horse,  lie  had  four  wiute  legs,  wiiite  to  tho 
knees;  and  he  ran  more  awkwardly  than  racer  ever  did, 
with  ids  iiead  between  his  forelegs,  close  to  the  ground, 
liUe  a  pig.  Alexander,  Napoleon,  and  Wellington,  were 
all  little  men  ;  in  places  where  a  commanding  presence 
would  have  been  of  no  small  value.  A  most  disagree- 
ably affected  manner  has  not  ])revented  ii  barrister,  with 
no  special  advantages,  from  rising  with  grneral  approval 
to  the  highest  places  which  a  barrisler  can  till.  A  hid- 
eous little  wretch  has  appeared  ibr  tj-ial  in  a  Criminal 


160  CONCERNING   PEOPLE  WHO 

Court,  having  succeodcd  in  marryinj"-  seven  wlvp*  at 
once.  A  painful  licsitation  has  iiol  hindered  a  certain 
c'lniiient  pcr-on  tioin  Ix'inij;  one  of  the  pi'incipal  speakers 
in  (lie  British  Parhament,  for  many  years.  Yes,  even 
disadvantages  never  overcome  have  not  sufficed  to  hold 
in  ohscurity  men  who  wci-e  at  once  able  and  fortunate. 
But  sometimes  tiie  disadvantage  was  thoroughly  over- 
come. Sometimes  it  served  no  other  end  than  to  draw 
to  one  point  the  attention  and  the  efforts  of  a  determined 
will ;  and  that  matter,  in  regard  to  wliich  nature  seemed 
to  have  said  tiiat  a  man  should  fall  short,  became  the 
thing  in   which   he  attained   unrivalled   pei'fection. 

A  heavy  drag-weight  upon  the  powers  of  some  men, 
is  the  uncertainty  of  tiieir  pov.eivs.  The  man  has  not  his 
powers  at  command.  Ilis  mind  is  a  capricious  thing, 
that  works  wiien  it  pleases,  and  will  not  work  except 
when  it  (dea-es.  1  am  not  thinking  now  of  what  to 
many  is  a  sad  disadvantage;  that  nervous  trepidation 
wiiicii  cannot  be  reasoned  away,  and  which  often  deprives 
them  of  the  full  u^^e  of  their  mental  abilities  just  when 
they  are  most  needed.  It  is  a  vast  thing  in  a  man's 
favor  tiiat,  whatever  he  can  do,  he  should  be  able  to  do 
at  any  time,  and  to  do  at  once.  For  want  of  coolness  of 
mind,  and  that  readiness  wliich  generally  goes  with  it, 
many  a  man  cannot  do  himself  justice ;  and  in  a  delib- 
erative assembly  he  may  be  entirely  beaten  by  some  flip- 
pant person  who  has  all  his  money  (so  to  speak)  in  hi3 
jiocket,  while  the  other  must  send  to  the  bank  for  his. 
J  low  many  people  can  think  next  day,  or  even  a  few 
minutes  after,  of  the  precise  thing  they  ought  to  have 
said,  but  which  would  not  come  at  the  time!  But  very 
frequently  the  thing  is  of  no  valne,  unless  it  c«n»e  at  the 


CARRIED  WEIGH  r  IN  LIFE.  161 

tirae  when  it  is  wanted.  Coming  next  day,  it  is  like  the 
otfer  of  a  thick  fur  great-coat  on  a  sweltering  day  in  July. 
You  look  at  the  wrap,  and  say,  Oh  if  I  could  but  have 
had  yon  on  the  December  night  when  I  went  to  Lon- 
don by  the  limited  mail,  and  was  nearly  starved  to  death ! 
But  it  seems  as  if  the  mind  must  be,  to  a  certain  extent, 
capricious  in  its  action.  Caprice,  or  what  looks  like  ifc^ 
appears  of  necessity  to  go  with  complicated  machinery, 
even  material.  The  moi"e  complicated  a  machine  is,  the 
liker  it  grows  to  mind,  in  the  matter  of  uncertainty  and 
apparent  caprice  of  action.  The  simplest  machine  — 
say  a  pipe  for  conveying  water  —  will  always  act  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  way.  And  two  such  pipes,  if  of  the 
same  dimensions,  and  subjected  to  the  same  pressure, 
will  always  convey  tlie  self-same  quantities.  But  go  to 
more  advanced  machines.  Take  two  clocks,  or  two  loco- 
motive engines ;  and  though  these  are  made  in  all  re- 
spects exactly  alike,  they  will  act  (I  can  answer  at  least 
for  the  locomotive  engines)  quite  diffei-ently.  One  loco- 
motive will  swallow  a  vast  quantity  of  water  at  once; 
another  must  be  led  by  driblets ;  no  one  can  say  why. 
One  engine  is  a  facsimile  of  the  other;  yet  each  has 
its  character  and  its  peculiarities,  as  truly  as  a  man  has. 
You  need  to  know  your  engine's  temper  before  driving 
it,  just  as  much  as  you  need  to  know  that  of  your  hors'i, 
or  that  of  your  friend.  I  know,  of  course,  there  is  a 
mechanical  reason  for  tliis  seeming  caprice,  if  you  could 
trace  tlie  reason.  But  not  one  man  in  a  thousand  con  Id 
trace  out  the  reason.  And  the  plienomenon,  as  it  presses 
itself  upon  us,  really  amounts  to  this  :  tiiat  very  compli- 
cated machinery  appears  to  have  a  will  ol  its  own  ;  ap- 
pears to  exercise  sonietliing  of  the  nature  of  choice.  But 
there  is  no  machine  so  capricious  as  the  human  mind. 
11 


162  CONCERN  IXG   PEOPLE  WHO 

The  crrent  poet  wlio  wrote  those  beautiful  verses,  could 
not  do  tliut  every  day.  A  good  deal  more  of"  what  he 
writes  is  poor  enough ;  and  many  days  he  could  not 
write  at  all.  By  long  habit  the  mind  may  be  made 
capable  of  being  put  in  harness  daily  for  the  humbler 
task  of  producing  piose  ;  but  you  cannot  say,  when  you 
harness  it  in  the  morning,  how  far  or  at  what  rate  it  will 
run  that  day. 

Go  and  see  a  great  organ,  of  which  yon  have  been 
told.  Touch  it,  and  you  hear  the  noble  tones  at  once. 
The  organ  can  product;  them  at  any  time.  But  go  and 
see  a  great  man  ;  toueli  Jtini  ;  that  is,  get  him  to  Ix'gin 
to  talk.  You  will  be  niiieii  di.-appointed  if  you  expect, 
certainly,  to  hear  anythiug  like  his  book  or  his  poem. 
A  great  man  is  not  a  man  wlio  is  always  saying  great 
things  ;  or  who  is  always  able  to  say  great  things.  He 
is  a  man  who  on  a  few  occasions  has  said  great  things; 
who  on  the  coming  of  a  suffiei(>nt  occasion  may  possibly 
say  great  things  again  ;  but  the  staple  of  his  talk  is  com- 
monplace enough.  Here  is  a  point  of  difference  from 
machinery,  with  all  machinery's  apparent  caprice.  You 
could  not  say,  as  you  pointed  to  a  steam-engine,  The 
usual  power  of  that  engine  is  two  hundred  horses;  but 
once  or  twice  it  has  surprised  us  all  by  working  up  to 
two  thousand.  No  ;  the  engine  is  always  of  nearly  the 
power  of  two  thousand  horses,  if  it  ever  is.  But  what 
we  have  been  supposing  as  to  the  engine,  is  just  what 
many  men  have  done.  Poe  wrote  The  Raven  ;  he  was 
working  then  up  to  two  thousand  horse  power.  But 
he  wrote  abundance  of  poor  stuff,  working  at  about 
twenty-five.  Read  straight  through  the  volumes  of 
Wordsworth  :  and  I  think  you  will  find  traces  of  the 
engine  having  worked   at  many  different  powers,  vary- 


CARRIED   WEIGHT   IN   LIIE.  163 

ing  from  twenty-five  horses  or  les.-,  up  to  t\vo  thousand 
or  more.  Go  and  heur  a,  really  great  preacher  when 
he  is  preaching  in  his  own  church  upon  a  common  Sun- 
day ;  tind  'possibly  you  may  hear  a  very  ordinary  ser- 
mon. I  have  heard  Mr.  Melvill  preach  very  poorly. 
You  must  not  expect  to  find  people  always  at  their 
best.  It  is  a  very  unusual  thing  that  even  the  ablest 
men  should  be  like  Ikirke,  who  could  not  talk  with  an 
intelligent  stranger  for  five  minutes,  without  convincing 
the  stranger  that  he  had  talked  tor  five  minutes  with  a 
great  man.  And  it  is  an  awful  thing  when  some  clever 
youth  is  introduced  to  some  local  poet  who  has  been 
told  how  greatly  the  clever  youth  admires  him  ;  and 
what  vast  expectations  the  clever  youth  has  formed  of 
Ids  conversation  ;  and  when  the  local  celebrity  makes  a 
desperate  effort  to  talk  up  to  the  expectations  formed 
of  him.  I  have  witnessed  such  a  scene  ;  and  I  can  sin- 
cerely say  that  I  coidd  not  previously  have  believed  that 
the  local  celebrity  could  have  made  such  a  fool  of  him- 
self. He  was  resolved  to  show  that  he  deserved  his 
fame  ;  and  to  show  that  the  mind  which  had  produced 
those  lovely  verses  in  the  country  newspaper,  could  not 
Btoop  to  co!nmon[>lace  things. 

Undue  sensitiveness,  and  a  too  lowly  estimate  of  their 
own  powers,  hang  heavily  ujum  sonic  men  ;  probably 
upon  more  men  than  one  would  iinjiginc.  I  believe 
that  many  a  man  whom  30U  would  take  to  be  ambiiiuus, 
pushing,  and  self-complacent,  is  ever  pressed  with  a  sad 
conviction  of  inferiority,  and  wishes  nothing  more  than 
quietly  to  slip  through  lile.  It  would  please  and  sat- 
isfy him  if  he  could  but  be  assured  that  he  is  just  like 
other  people.     You  may   remember   a  touch  of  nature 


IG4  CONUEKXING   PEOPLE  WHO 

(tlitit  is,  of  some  people's  nature)  in  Burns;  you  re- 
member the  simple  exultation  of  the  peasant  mother 
\viien  her  dauj^Iitcr  gets  a  sweetheart:  she  is  *' well 
])leased  to  see  lier  baiiTi  respeckit  like  the  lave"  that  is, 
like  the  other  girls  round.  And  undue  humility,  per- 
haps even  befitting  humility,  holds  baek  sadly  in  the 
race  of  life.  It  is  reeorded  lliat  a  weaver  in  a  certain 
village  in  Scotland,  was  wont  daily  to  offer  a  singular 
petition  ;  he  prayed  daily  and  fervently  for  a  better 
opinion  of  himself.  Yes,  a  firm  conviction  of  one's  own 
importance  is  a  great  help  in  life.  It  gives  dignity  of 
bearing  ;  it  does  (so  to  s])eak)  lift  the  horse  over  many 
a  fence  at  which  one  witii  a  less  confident  heart  would 
liave  broken  down.  But  the  man  who  estimates  him- 
self and  his  phuc;  humbly  and  justly,  will  be  ready  to 
shrink  aside,  and  let  men  of  greater  imimdence  and  not 
greater  desert  step  before  him.  I  have  often  seen,  with 
a  sad  heart,  in  the  case  of  working  peojjle,  that  manner, 
difficult  to  describe,  which  comes  of  being  what  we  in 
Scotland  sometimes  call  suir  haJden  down.  I  have  seen 
the  like  in  educated  people  too.  And  not  very  many 
«ill  take  the  trouble  to  seek  out  and  to  draw  out  the 
modest  merit  that  keejjs  itself  in  tiie  shade.  The  en- 
ergetic, successful  poople  of  this  woi'ld  are  too  busy  in 
j)ushing  each  for  idm-elf,  to  have  time  to  do  that.  You 
will  find  that  people  with  abundant  confidence,  people 
wlio  assume  a  good  deal,  are  not  unfrequently  taken 
at  their  own  estimate  of  themselves.  I  have  seen  a 
Queen's  Counsel  walk  into  court,  after  the  case  in  wiiich 
he  was  engaged  had  been  conclucted  so  far  by  his  junior, 
and  conducted  as  well  as  mortal  could  conduct  it.  But 
it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  complacent  air  of  su[ierior 
Strength  with  which  the  Queen's  Counsel  took  the  man- 


CARRIED   WEIGHT   IN    LIFE.  163 

agement  out  of  Lis  junior's  hands,  convej-ecl  to  the  jury 
(a  ooniinon  jui-y)  the  behef  that  things  were  now  to  be 
managed  in  quite  different  and  vastly  better  style.  A.nd 
have  you  not  known  such  a  thing  as  that  a  family,  not 
a  whit  better,  Avealthier,  or  more  respectable  than  all 
the  rest  in  the  little  country  town  or  the  country  parish, 
do  yet,  by  carrying  their  heads  higher  (no  mortal  could 
sa}''  why),  gradually  elbow  themselves  into  a  place  of 
admitted  social  superiority?  Everybody  knows  exactly 
what  they  are,  and  from  wliat  they  have  sprung ;  but 
somehow,  by  resolute  assumption,  by  a  quiet  air  of 
being  better  than  their  neighbors,  th(;y  draw  ahead  of 
them,  and  attain  the  glorious  advantage  of  one  step 
higher  on  the  delicately  graduated  social  ladder  of  the 
district.  Now  it  is  manifest  that  if  such  people  had 
sense  to  see  their  true  position,  and  the  absurdity  of 
their  pretensions,  they  would  assuredly  not  have  gained 
that  advantage,  whatever  it  may  be  worth. 

But  sense  and  feeling  are  sometimes  burdens  in  the 
race  of  life ;  that  is,  they  sometimes  hold  a  man  back 
from  grasping  material  advantages  which  he  might  have 
grasped  had  he  not  been  prevented  by  the  possession  of 
a  certain  measure  of  common  sense  and  right  feeling.  I 
doubt  not,  my  Iriend,  that  you  have  acquaintances  who 
can  do  things  wliicli  you  could  not  do  for  your  life,  and 
who  by  doing  these  things,  push  their  way  in  life.  They 
ask  for  what  they  want,  and  never  let  a  chance  go  by 
tliem.  And  though  they  may  meet  many  rebuffs,  they 
sometimes  make  a  successful  venture.  Impudence  some- 
times attains  to  a  pitch  of  sublimity  ;  and  at  that  point 
it  has  produced  a  very  gi-eat  impression  upon  many  men. 
The  inculpable  person  who  started  for  a  professorship,  baa 
8ometim(!S  got  it.     The  man  who,  amid  the  derision  of 


166  CONCERNING   PEOPLE  WHO 

the  county,  published  his  address  to  the  electors,  has  oc- 
casionally pot  into  the  House  of  Commons.  The  vulgar, 
liall-educated  preacher,  who  without  any  introduction 
asked  a  patron  for  a  vacant  living  in  the  Church,  has 
now  and  then  got  the  living.  And  however  unfit  j'ou 
may  be  for  a  place,  ^ind  however  discreditable  may 
have  been  the  means  by  which  you  got  it,  once  you  have 
actually  held  it  for  two  or  three  years,  people  come  to 
acquiesce  in  your  holding  it.  They  accept  the  fact  that 
you  are  there,  just  as  we  accept  the  fact  that  any  other 
evil  exists  in  this  world,  without  asking  why,  except  on 
very  special  occasions.  I  believe  too,  tliat  in  the  matter 
of  worldly  preferment,  there  is  too  much  fatalism  in  many 
good  men.  They  have  a  vague  trust  that  Providence 
will  do  more  than  it  has  promised.  They  are  ready  to 
think  that  if  it  is  God's  will  that  they  are  to  gain  such  a 
prize,  it  will  be  sure  to  come  their  way  williout  their 
pushing.  That  is  a  mistake.  Suppose  you  apply  the 
same  reasoning  to  your  dinner.  Suppose  you  sit  still  in 
your  study  and  say,  "  If  1  am  to  have  dinner  to-day,  it 
will  come  without  effort  of  mine ;  and  if  1  am  not  to  have 
dinner  to-day,  it  will  not  come  by  any  effort  of  mine  ;  so 
here  I  sit  still  and  do  nothing."  Is  not  that  absurd  ? 
Yet  that  is  what  many  a  wise  and  good  man  ])ractically 
says  about  the  place  in  life  which  would  suit  him,  and 
which  would  make  him  happy.  Not  Turks  and  Hindoos 
alone  have  a  tendency  to  believe  in  their  Kismet.  It  is 
human  to  believe  in  tiiat.  And  we  grasp  at  every  event 
that  seems  to  favor  the  belief.  The  other  evening,  in 
the  twilight,  I  passed  two  respectable-looking  women, 
who  seemed  like  domestic  servants  ;  and  I  caught  one 
sentence  which  one  said  to  the  other  with  great  apparent 
faith.     "You  see,"  she  said,  "if  a  thing's  to  come  your 


CARRIED   WEIGHT  IN  LIFE.  167 

way,  it'll  no  gang  by  ye  !  "  It  was  in  a  crowded  street 
but  if  it  bad  been  in  my  conntiy  parisb  wiiere  every  one 
knew  me,  I  sbould  certainly  bave  stopped  the  women, 
and  told  them  that  tliongh  wliat  they  said  was  quite  true, 
I  feared  tliey  were  understanding  it  wrongly  ;  and  that 
the  firm  belief  we  all  bold  in  God's  Providence  wbicli 
reaches  to  all  events,  and  in  His  sovereignty  wbicli  or- 
ders all  things,  should  be  used  to  help  us  to  be  resigned, 
after  we  have  done  our  best  and  failed  ;  but  should  never 
be  used  as  an  excuse  for  not  doing  our  best.  When  we 
have  set  our  mind  on  any  honest  end,  let  us  seek  to  com- 
pass it  by  every  honest  means  ;  and  if  we  fail  after  hav- 
ing used  every  honest  means,  then  let  us  fall  back  on  the 
comfortable  belief  thai  tilings  are  ordered  by  the  AVisest 
and  Kindest ;  tJien  is  the  time  for  the  Fiat  Vvluntas  Tua. 
You  would  not  wish,  my  friend,  to  be  deprived  of  com- 
mon sense  and  of  delicate  feeling,  even  though  you  could 
be  quite  sure  that  once  that  drag-weight  was  taken  off, 
you  would  spring  forward  to  the  van,  and  make  such 
running  in  the  race  of  life  as  you  never  made  before. 
Still  you  cannot  help  looking  with  a  certain  interest  upon 
those  people  who,  by  the  want  of  these  hindering  influ- 
ences, are  enabled  to  do  things  and  say  things  which  you 
never  could.  I  have  sometimes  looked  with  no  small 
curiosity  upon  the  kind  of  man  who  will  come  uninvited, 
and  without  warning  of  ins  approach,  to  stay  at  another 
man's  house :  who  will  stay  on,  quite  comfortable  and 
unmoved,  though  seeing  plainly  he  is  not  wanted  :  who 
will  announce,  on  arriving,  that  his  visit  is  to  be  for  three 
days,  and  who  will  then,  without  further  remark,  and 
without  invitation  of  any  kind,  remain  for  a  month  or  six 
weeks:  and  all  the  while  sit  down  to  dinner  every  day 
with  a  perfectly  easy  and  unembarrassed  manner.     You 


168  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  WHO 

nnd  I,  my  reader,  would  I'ather  live  on  much  less  than 
sixpence  a  day  than  do  all  this.  We  could  not  do  it. 
But  some  peoj)le  not  merely  can  do  it,  but  can  do  it 
without  any  appearance  of  eHbrt.  Oh,  if  the  people  who 
are  victimized  by  these  horse-leeches  of  society  could  but 
piin  a  little  of  the  tliickness  of  skin  which  characterizes 
the  horse-leeches,  and  hid  them  be  off,  and  not  return 
again  till  they  are  invited  !  To  the  same  pachyderma- 
tous class  belong  those  individuals  who  will  put  all  sorts 
of  (]lle^tions  as  to  (he  private  affairs  of  other  people,  but 
carefully  shy  off  from  any  similar  confidence  as  to  their 
own  atfairs :  also  those  individuals  wlio  borrow  STnall 
sums  of  money  and  never  repay  them,  but  go  on  borrow- 
ing (ill  the  small  sums  amount  (o  a  good  deal.  To  (lie 
satne  class  may  be  referred  the  persons  who  lay  (lieiu- 
selves  out  for  saying  disagreeable  things:  (he  '•candid 
friends  "  ol  Canning  :  the  "  people  who  speak  their  mind." 
who  form  such  pests  of  society.  To  find  fault  is  to  right- 
feeling  men  a  very  painful  thing ;  but  some  take  to  (he 
work  with  avidity  and  delight.  And  while  people  of 
cultivation  shrink,  with  a  delica(e  intuition,  from  saying 
anything  which  may  give  pain  or  cause  uneasiness  (o 
others,  there  are  others  who  are  ever  painfully  treading 
upon  the  moral  corns  of  all  around  tiiem.  Sometimes 
this  is  done  designedly :  as  by  Mr.  Snarling,  who  by  long 
practice  has  a((aincd  the  power  of  hinting  and  insinuating, 
in  the  course  of  a  forenoon  call,  as  many  unpleasant  things 
as  may  germinate  into  a  crop  of  ill-tempers  and  worries 
which  shall  make  the  house  at  which  he  called  uncom- 
fortable all  that  day.  Sometimes  it  is  done  unawares,  as 
by  Mr.  Boor,  who,  through  pure  ignorance  and  coarse- 
ness, is  always  bellowing  out  things  which  it  is  disagree- 
able to  some  one,  or  to  several,  to  hear.     Which  was  it, 


CARRIED  WEIGHT  IN  LIFE.  169 

I  wonder,  Boor  or  Snarling,  who  once  reached  the  dig- 
nity of  the  mitre;  and  who,  at  prayers  in  his  house,  ut- 
tered   this    supplication   on   behalf  of  a   lady  visitor  who 

was  kneeling  be.-ide  him:  '' l^less  our  friend,  Mrs. : 

give  her  a  little  more  common  sense ;  and  teach  her  to 
dress  a  little  less  like  a  tragedy  queen  than  she  does  at 
jjresent  ?" 

But  who  shall  reckon  up  the  countless  circumstances 
which  lie  like  a  depressing  burden  on  the  energies  of 
men,  and  make  them  work  at  that  disadvantage  which  we 
have  thought  of  under  the  figure  of  carryimj  weight  in 
life?  Tiiere  are  men  who  cany  weight  in  a  dam|),  marshy 
neighborhood,  who,  amid  biacing  mountain  air,  might 
have  done  things  which  now  they  will  never  do.  There 
are  men  who  carry  weight  in  an  uncomfortable  house : 
in  smoky  chimneys :  in  a  study  with  a  dismal  look-out: 
in  distance  from  a  railway-station  :  in  ten  miles  between 
them  and  a  bookseller's  shop.  Give  another  hundred  a 
year  of  income,  and  the  poor,  struggling  parson  who 
preaches  dull  sermons  will  astonish  you  by  the  talent 
he  will  exhiltit  when  his  mind  is  freed  from  the  dismal 
depressing  influence  of  ceaseless  scheming  to  keep  the 
wolf  from  the  door.  Let  the  poor  little  sick  child  giow 
strong  and  well,  and  with  how  much  better  heart  will  its 
father  face  the  work  of  life  !  Let  the  clergyman  who 
preached  in  a  spiritless  enough  way,  to  a  handful  of 
uneducated  rustics,  be  placed  in  a  charge  where  weekly 
he  has  to  address  a  large  cultivated  congregation  ;  and 
with  the  new  stimulus,  latent  powers  may  manifest  them- 
selves which  no  out;  fancied  he  possessed,  and  he  may 
prove  quite  an  eloquent  and  attractive  preaciier.  A 
dull,  quiet  man,  whom  you  esteemed  as  a  blockhead, 
may  suddenly  be  valued  very  differently  when  circum- 


170  CONCERNING  PEOPLE  WHO 

stances  unexpectedly  call  oul  the  solid  qualities  he  poa 
Besses,  unsuspected  before.  A  man.  devoid  of  brilliancy, 
may  on  occasion  show  that  he  possesses  great  good  sense ; 
or  that  he  has  the  power  of  sticking  to  his  task,  in  spite 
of  discouragement.  Let  a  man  be  placed  where  dogged 
perseverance  will  stand  him  in  stead,  and  you  may  see 
what  he  can  do  when  he  has  but  a  chance.  The  especial 
weight  wliich  has  held  some  men  back  —  liie  thing  which 
kept  them  from  doing  great  things  and  attaining  great 
fame  —  has  been  just  this:  that  they  were  not  able  to 
say  or  to  write  what  they  have  thought  and  felt.  And 
indeed  a  great  poet  is  nothing  more  than  the  one  man 
in  a  million  who  has  the  gift  to  express  that  which  has 
been  in  the  mind  and  heart  of  muhiludes.  If  even  the 
most  commonplace  of  human  beings  could  write  all  the 
poetry  he  has  felt,  he  woukl  produce  something  that 
would  go  straight  to  the  hearts  of  many. 

It  is  touching  to  witness  the  indications  and  vestiges 
of  sweet  and  adiniralile  things  which  have  been  subjected 
to  a  weight  which  has  entirely  crushed  them  down:  things 
which  would  have  come  out  into  beauty  and  excellence 
if  they  had  been  allowed  a  chance.  You  may  witness 
one  of  the  saddest  of  all  the  losses  of  nature  in  various 
old  maids.  What  kind  hearts  are  there  running  to  waste  ! 
What  pure  and  gentle  affections  blossom  to  be  blighted  ! 
I  dare  say  you  have  heard  a  young  lady  of  more  than 
forty  sing  ;  and  you  have  seen  her  eyes  fill  with  tears  at 
the  pathos  of  a  very  commonplace  verse.  Have  you  not 
thought  that  there  was  the  indication  of  a  tender  heart 
which  might  have  made  some  good  man  happj^ ;  and,  in 
doing  so,  made  herself  happy  too?  But  it  was  not  to 
be.     Still,  it  is  sad   to  think   that  sometimes  upon  cats 

'  flonrs  there  should  be  wasted  the  affection  of  a  kindly 


CAliCIED    WEIGHT   IN   LIFE.  171 

human  being  !  And  30U  know,  too,  how  often  the  fairest 
promise  of  human  excellence  is  never  suffered  to  come  to 
fi'uit.  You  mu.-t  look  u[)on  grave.-^tones  to  find  the  names 
of  those  who  promised  to  be  the  best  and  noblest  speci- 
mens of  tlie  lace.  They  died  in  early  youth  ;  perhaps 
in  early  childhood.  Tlieir  pleasant  faces,  their  singu- 
lar Mords  and  ways,  remain,  not  often  talked  of,  in  the 
memories  of  subdued  parents,  or  of  brothers  and  sisters 
now  grown  old,  but  never  forgetting  how  that  one  of 
the  iamily  that  was  as  the  flower  of  the  flock  was  the 
first  to  fade.  It  has  been  a  proverbial  saying,  you  know, 
even  from  heathen  ages,  that  those  whom  the  gods  love 
die  young.  It  is  but  an  inferior  order  of  human  beings 
that  makes  the  living  succession  to  carry  on  the  human 
race.  - 


CHAPTER   VI I. 
COLLEGE   LIFE   AT   GLASGOW. 

53  N  the  last  (lays  of  October,  just  wlien  wintei 
I^K'il^l  i-s  fairly  settling  down  upon  smoky  and  noisy 
;;''/  Glasgow  ;  when  every  leaf  has  gone  (for 
^^^'jri  the  leaves  go  early)  from  the  trees  near  it, 
and  when  fogs  shorten  the  day  at  its  beginning  and  its 
end;  there  begins  to  appear,  intermingled  with  the  crowd 
in  the  Trongate,  and  staring  in  at  the  shop-windows  of  , 
Bucliunan-street  with  a  curiosity  fresh  from  the  country,  I 
a  host  of  lads,  varying  in  age  from  decided  boyhood  to 
decided  manhood,  conspicuous  by  the  scarlet  mantle  they 
wear.  Tiiose  glaring  rulx'.s  have  not  been  seen  before 
since  May-day  —  for  the  vacation  at  Glasgow  College 
lasts  from  the  first  of  May  to  about  the  twenty-sixth 
of  October:  —  and  now  ihcir  a[)pearance  announces  to 
the  citizens  tliat  winter  has  decidedly  set  in  ;  the  sea- 
son, in  Glasgow,  of  ceaseless  rain,  fog,  and  smoke  ;  of 
eager  lousiness,  splendid  hospitality,  and  laborious  study. 
Through  the  close  stifling  xvynds  or  alleys  of  the  High- 
street  the  word  runs,  lliat  "  The  CoUey  dougs  have  come 
back  again  ; "  and  by  the  time  that  November  is  a  few  j 
days  old,  the  college  courts,  which  thiougb  the  summer  ' 
months  lay  still  and  deserted,  are  thronged  with  a  motley 
crowd  of  many  hundreds  of  young  men,  students  of  arts, 
theology,  medicine,  and  law. 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT   GLASGOW.  .173 

riie  stranger  in  Glasgow  \v!io  has  ])aid  a  visit  to  the 
nolile  cathedral,  has  probably,  in  returning  from  it, 
walked  down  the  High-street,  a  steep  and  filthy  way 
of  tall  houses,  now  abandoned  to  the  poorest  classes  of 
{lie  coniiuunity,  where  dirty  women  in  mutches,  each  fol- 
lowed by  two  or  three  squalid  children,  hold  loud  conver- 
sations all  day  long;  and  the  alleys  leading  from  which 
])our  forth  a  fiood  ot"  poverty,  disea-e,  and  crime.  On 
tiie  left  hand  of  the  High-street,  where  it  becomes  a 
shade  more  respectable,  a  dark,  low-browed  building,  of 
three  stories  in  height,  fronts  the  street  lor  two  or 
tiiree  hundred  yards.  lliut  is  Gkisgow  College,  or  the 
University  of  Gla-gow  ;  for  here,  as  also  at  Edinburgh, 
the  University  consists  of  a  single  College.  The  first 
gate-way  at  wiiich  we  arrive  opens  into  a  dull-looking 
court,  inhabited  by  the  i)rolessors,  eight  or  ten  of  whom 
have  houses  here.  Further  down,  a  low  archway,  which 
is  the  main  entrance  to  the  building,  admits  to  two  or 
three  quadrangles,  occupied  by  the  various  class-rooms. 
There  is  something  impressive  in  ihc  sudden  transition 
from  one  of  the  most  crowded  and  noisy  streets  of  the 
city,  to  the  calm  and  stillness  of  the  College  courts. 
The  first  court  we  enter  is  a  small  one,  surrounded  by 
buildings  of  a  dark  and  venerable  aspect.  An  antique 
staircase  of  massive  stone  leads  to  the  Faculty  Hall,  or 
Senate-house  ;  and  a  spire  of  considerable  height  sur- 
mounts a  vaidted  archway  leading  to  the  second  court. 
This  coiiit  is  much  larger  than  the  one  next  the  street, 
and  with  its  turrets  and  winding  staircases,  narrow  win- 
dows and  high-pitched  roofs,  would  (piite  come  up  to  our 
ideas  of  academic  architecture;  but  unhappily,  son)e  years 
Bince  one  side  of  this  venerable  quadrangle  was  pulled 
dowu,  and  a  large  building  in  the  Grecian  style  erected 


174  COLLEGE  LIl'E  AT   GLASGOW. 

in  its  place,  wliic-h,  like  a  pert  interloper,  contrasts  most 
disagreeably  with  llie  remainder  of  the  old  monastic  pile. 
Passing  out  of  this  court  by  another  vaulted  passage,  we 
enter  an  o[)en  stpiare,  to  the  right  of  which  is  the  Uni- 
versity libiary,  and  at  some  little  distance  an  elegant 
Doric  temple,  which  is  greatly  admired  by  those  who 
prefer  Grecian  to  Gothic  architecture.  This  is  thf 
Hunterian  Museum,  and  contains  a  valuable  collection 
of  subjects  in  natural  histoi-y  and  anatomy,  bequeathed 
by  the  eminent  surgeon  whose  name  it  bears.  Beyond 
this  building,  the  College  gardens  stretch  away  to  a  con- 
siderable distance.  The  gi'ouiid  is  undulating  —  there 
are  many  trees,  and  what  was  once  a  pleasant  country 
stream  flows  through  the  gardens ;  but  Glasgow  fac- 
tories and  Glasgow  smoke  have  quite  spoiled  what  must 
once  have  been  a  delightful  retreat  from  the  dust  and 
glare  of  the  city.  The  trees  are  now  quite  blackened, 
the  stream  (named  the  Molendinar  Burn)  became  so 
offensive  that  it  was  found  necessary  to  arch  it  over, 
and  drifts  of  stifling  and  noisome  smoke  trail  slowly 
all  day  over  the  College  gardens.  There  are  no  ever- 
greens nor  flowers;  and  the  students  generally  prefer  to 
take  their  "constitutional"  in  the  purer  air  of  the  western 
out.-kirts  of  Glasgow. 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  young  student,  brought  from 
the  coinitry  by  parent  or  guardian,  has  come  to  town  to 
enter  upon  his  university  career.  The  order  in  which 
the  classes  are  taken  is  as  follows  :  first  year,  Latin  and 
Greek;  second,  Logic  and  Greek;  third,  Moral  Philoso- 
phy and  Mathematics;  fourth.,  Natural  I'hilosophy.  The 
classes  must  be  attcmh/'d  in  this  order  by  those  students 
who  intend  takiu";-  their  degree,  or  going  into  the  church  ; 
but  any  person  may  attend  any  class  upon  signing  a  dec- 


COLLEGE    LIFE  AT   GLASGOW.  175 

aration  to  tlie  effect  that  he  is  not  stiirlying  for  the 
churcli.  Pi-acticallj,  tlie  classes  are  almost  invariably 
altendi'd  in  the  order  wlwch  has  been  mentioned,  which  ia 
called  the  College  curriculum.  For  several  dajs  before 
the  classes  open,  the  professors  remain  in  their  houses, 
that  students  may  call  upon  them  to  enter  their  class. 
Our  young  friend  and  liis  governor  call  upon  the  profes- 
sor whose  class  is  to  be  entered.  Tliey  find  liim  seated 
in  Ids  study,  a  low-roofed  cliamber  of  small  dimensions, 
but  abundantly  provided  with  the  comforts  which  beseem 
a  sedentary  and  studious  hfe.  Tiiere  is  the  writing-table 
at  which  to  sit  ;  by  the  window,  tlie  desk  at  which  to 
write  or  read  wliile  standing;  there  is  tlie  cool  seat  of 
polished  birch,  without  a  trace  of  cushion  ;  and  the  vast 
easy-chair,  where  horse-hair  and  morocco  have  done  their 
utmost,  to  receive  the  weary  man  of  learning  in  tiie  day's 
last  luxurious  hour  of  leisure.  The  professor  is  seated 
at  his  table,  fresli  and  hearty  from  his  six  months'  holi- 
day, brown  from  his  shooting-box  in  the  Highlands,  or 
his  ramble  over  tlie  ContinenI,  or  liis  pretty  villa  on  the 
beautilul  Frith  of  Clyde.  Three  or  four  lads  who  have 
come  to  enter  the  class,  fidget  uneasily  on  their  chairs, 
with  awe-struck  faces.  The  professor  may  perhaps,  for 
his  own  guidance,  make  some  inquiry  as  to  the  previous 
acquirements  of  the  student,  but  there  is  no  ])relirainary 
test  applied  to  ascertain  the  student's  fitness  for  entering 
college.  The  ceremony  of  entering  tiie  class  is  completed 
by  paying  the  professor  his  fee,  which  in  almost  every 
L'hiss  is  three  guineas.  In  return,  the  professor  gives  the 
etudtnt  a  ticket  of  admission  to  the  class-room  ;  on  which, 
at  the  end  of  the  session,  he  writes  a  certificate  of  the 
Student's  having  attended  his  class.  TIk;  more  civilized 
students  take  care  to  have  the  exact  amount  of  the  fee 


176  COLLEGE    LIFE  AT  GLASGOW. 

prepared  beforehand,  wliicli  they  place  on  the  professor's 
table,  and  which  he  receives  without  remark,  thus  soften- 
ing the  mercantile  transaction  as  much  as  may  be.  Oth- 
ers hand  their  money  to  the  professor,  and  demand  the 
change  in  regular  shop  fashion.  It  is  amusing  to  re- 
mark the  demeanor  of  tlie  different  professors  in  taking 
their  three  guineas.  Some  are  dignificdly  unconscious 
of  the  sum  received,  and  althougii  a  sharp  glance  may 
asceitain  tiiat  ihe  amount  is  tiiere,  no  remark  is  made. 
Others  take  up  the  money,  count  it  over,  and  pocket  it 
with  a  bow,  saying,  "  Thank  you.  Sir ;  much  obliged  to 
you,  Sir." 

And  what  a  strange  mixed  company  the  thirteen  or 
fourteen  hundred  students  of  Glasgow  College  make  up  ! 
Boys  of  eleven  or  twelve  years  old  (Thomas  Campbell 
entered  at  the  latter  age)  ;  men  with  gray  hair,  up  to  the 
ag(;  of  lil'ty  or  sixty  ;  gn^at  stout  fellows  from  the  plough; 
men  in  considerable  number  from  the  north  of  Ireland  ; 
lads  fi-om  counting-houses  in  town,  who  wish  to  improve 
liieir  minds  by  a  se>sion  at  the  logic  class;  pjnglish  dis- 
senters, long  excluded  from  the  Universities  of  England, 
who  have  come  down  to  the  enlightened  country  where  a 
Turk  or  a  Buddhist  may  graduate  if  he  will;  young  men 
with  high  scholarship  from  the  best  public  schools  ;  and 
others  not  knowing  a  letter  of  Greek  and  hardly  a  word 
of  Latin.  Mr.  Lockliart  (formerly  editor  of  the  Quar- 
terly Review),  says  with  truth  that  "  the  greater  part  of 
the  students  attending  the  Scotch  colleges,  consists  of  per- 
sons whose  situation  in  life,  had  they  been  born  in  Eng- 
land, must  have  left  them  no  chance  of  being  able  to 
share  the  advantages  of  an  academical  cdiieation."  "Any 
young  man  who  can  attbrd  to  wear  a  decent  coat,  and 
live  in  a  garret  upon   porridge  or  Iwrrings,  may,  il  he 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT  GLASGOW.  177 

pleases,  come  to  Edinburgh,  and  pass  through  his  aca 
demical  career  just  as  creditably  as  is  required  or  ex- 
pected." And,  in  consequence  of  all  this,  '•  the  Univer- 
sities of  Scotland  educate,  in  proportion  to  the  size  and 
wealth  of  the  two  countries,  twenty  times  a  larger  num- 
ber than  tliose  of  Elngland  educate."^ 

L^t  us  imagine  our  student  now  fairly  entered  upon 
ilia  work.  In  company  with  three  or  four  hundi-ed  of  the 
newest  and  brightest  gowns,  he  has,  no  doubt,  attended 
the  cciremuny  of  o|)ening  the  session  in  the  Common 
Ilall,  and  listened  to  many  good  advices  from  the  Princi- 
pal, who  used  regularly  to  beg  his  youthful  auditors  to 
remember  they  were  "  no  longer  schoolboys  ;  "  a  request 
invariably  received  with  loud  applause.  The  bustle  of 
the  lirst  start  over,  the  student  has  fallen  into  the  regular 
order  of  his  work.  The  Latin  and  Greek  classes  he 
finds  are  very  much  like  classes  at  school,  the  main  dif- 
ference being  that  they  are  atten.led  by  larger  numbers, 
and  accordingly  that  each  student  is  but  rarely  called  on 
for  examination.  Wlien  a  student  is  "called,"  he  con- 
strues live  or  >\x  lines  ;  the  professor  then  puts  a  num- 
ber of  questions  upon  what  has  been  read.  Should  he 
fail  to  answer  any  que.-tion,  tiie  professor  asks  if  any  one 
in  the  same  bench  can  answer  it.  If  no  one  can,  he  next 
names  the  numbers  of  the  various  benches  one  after 
another,  and  the  students  in  eacii  have  then  an  op|)ortu- 
nity  of  n)aking  their  knowledge  and  application  a|)parent 
to  their  fellow-students  ;  by  whom,  at  the  end  of  the  ses- 
sion, the  class  prizes  are  voted.  Lockhart  says  with  jus- 
tice of  the  Scotch  professors  of  Latin  and  Greek,  that 

"  Tiie  nature  of  tlie  ihitics  tliey  iicrfonu  of  course  reiluces  tliem  to 
lomethinp;  quite  difi'erent  from  wiiat  we  (in  En-iland)  sliould  under* 

1  Peter's  Letters  to  his  Kinsfol/:.      Vul.  i.  i>p.  IS",  192.  198. 
12 


178  COLLEGE   LIFE  AT  GLASGOW. 

(tand  bj-  the  name  they  bear.  Tliey  are  not  employed  in  as!«i.;tmjt 
youiijf  men  to  study,  wiih  greater  facility  or  advantage,  tiie  poets,  the 
liistoiians,  or  tile  piiilo-soijliers  of  antiquity;  nay,  it  ean  scarcely  be 
said,  in  any  proper  meaning  of  the  term,  that  they  are  emjilnycd 
in  teaching  the  principles  of  language.  They  are  schoolmasters  in 
the  strictest  sense  of  the  word  ;  lor  their  time  is  spent  in  laying  the 
very  lowest  part  of  the  foundation  on  which  a  superstructure  of  learn- 
ing must  be  reared.  A  profound  and  accomplished  scholar  may  at 
times  be  found  discharging  these  duties;  but  most  assuredly  there  is 
no  need  either  of  depth  or  elegance  to  enable  him  to  discharge  thein  as 
well  as  the  occasion  reiiuires." 

The  I'eitefated  cotnj)laints  of  Professor  Blackie,  of  the 
Greek  Chair  at  Edinbiirgh,  prove  what  indeed  needs  no 
proof  to  any  one  acquainted  with  the  Universities  of 
Scotland,  that  no  improvement  lias  taken  place  in  the 
years  since  Lockhart  thus  wrote.  Greek  professors  are 
still  expected  to  begin  with  the  alphabet.  Tiie  truth  is, 
that  while  things  remain  as  at  present,  a  good,  energetic 
teacher  from  a  public  school  would  make  a  better  Latin 
or  Greek  professor  tiian  a  man  of  fine  scholarship.  Fancy 
Mr.  Blackie  patiently  listening  to  a  dunce  blundering 
through  6  r;  TO  !  Or  think  of  tissigning  the  task  of 
grounding  a  ploughman  in  the  inflections  of  tvtttm,  to 
the  gentle  and  refined  Mr.  Lushington  of  Glasgow  !  We 
do  not  think  thtit  Mr.  Tennyson  was  skctcliiug  the  char- 
acteristics of  the  right  man  for  such  work  when  he  wrote 
of  Lushington  thus  :  — 

And  thou  art  worthy;  full  of  power; 
As  gentle;  liberal-minded,  great. 
Consistent;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

It  is  the  old  story  of  "cutting  blocks  with  a  razor;' 
i(  is  like  setting  the  winner  of  the  Derby  to  pull  a  dray. 
A.nd  so  long  as  the  work   remains  what  it  is,  we  believe 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT   GLASGOW.  179 

it   -would   be   better  and   more   cheerfully  done   by  ma 
chinery  a  good  deal  more  rough  and  ready. 

The  students  attending  tlie  Latin  class  may  number 
about  250  ;  but  the  class  is  taught  in  two  separate  di- 
visions. The  Greek  class  (whicli  meets  in  tliree  divis- 
ions) has  about  300  students  ;  wlien  Sir  Daniel  Sandford 
was  professor,  it  sometimes  numbered  500.  The  Logic 
class  has  from  150  to  180  students,  the  Moral  Philos- 
ophy, 100  to   120;    tlie  Natural   Philosophy,  70  to  90. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  to  witness  the  beginning  of  a 
working  day  at  Glasgow  College.  We  must,  to  do  so, 
rise  at  six  A.  M.  in  a  dark  winter  morning ;  for  if  we  live 
in  the,  better  part  of  the  town,  we  have  a  walk  of  half- 
an-hour  to  get  over  before  the  classes  meet.  Through 
darkness  and  sleet  we  make  our  way  to  the  College, 
wliich  we  reach,  say  at  twenty  minutes  past  seven  A.  M. 
A  crowd  of  students,  old  and  young,  wrapped  in  the  red 
mantles,  shivering  and  sleepy,  is  jjouring  in  at  the  low 
archway  already  mentioned.  The  liglits  shining  through 
the  little  windows  point  out  the  class-i-ooms  which  are 
now  to  be  occu[)ied.  At  tlie  door  of  eacli  stands  an 
unshaven  servant,  in  whose  vicinity  a  fragrance  as  of 
whisky  pervades  the  air.  The  servants  in  former  days 
were  always  shabby  and  generally  dirty ;  not  unfn;- 
quently  drunk.  Tliey  wear  no  livery  of  any  kind.  By 
long  intercourse  with  many  generations  of  students,  they 
have  acquired  the  power  of  receiving  and  returning  any 
amount  of  "  chalTT."  At  lenjjth  a  ini-ei-able  tinkling  is 
heard  from  the  steeple  ;  the  students  pour  into  the  class- 
rooms, and  arrange  themselves  in  benches,  like  the  pewg 
i)f  a  cluucii.  A  low  pulpit  is  occupied  by  the  professor. 
The  business  of  (he  day  is  commenced  by  a  short  prayer. 
After  prayer,  a  student,   placed    in  a  subsidiary   pulpit, 


180  COLLEGE   LIFE  AT  GLASGOW 

sails  over  the  names  of  the  =;tii(lents,  wlio  scverjillj  sig- 
nify tlieir  presence  by  saying  Adsuin.  Tlie  work  of  the 
class  then  goes  on  till  the  hour  is  finislied.  An  hour  is 
the  invariable  period  for  wiiich  tiie  class  remains.  The 
Latin  and  Greek  classes  meet  at  the  early  hour  we  have 
mentioned  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  it  is  at  this  unseasonable 
time  that  tl)e  eloquent  Professor  of  Moral  PiiiU)sophy 
lectures.  It  is  a  remai'kable  [)roof  <i\  his  power,  that  he 
is  able  to  touch  and  excite  sucii  a  wretchedly  cold  and 
sleepy  auditory.  The  applause  which  generally  attends 
his  lectures,  makes  tlie  houses  nearest  ids  class-room  the 
least  desirable  in  the  professor's  court.  At  half-past 
eigiit  many  of  the  classes  are  in  operatic*  —  as  the 
Latin,  Grecdi,  Logic,  Natural  Philosophy,  and  Theology. 
Though  it  is  always  an  effort  to  be  at  College  at  hours 
so  early,  still  the  arrangement  soon  comes  to  be  liked 
by  both  professors  and  students.  By  half-past  nine  the 
hardest  of  the  day's  work  is  over  ;  and  thus  liiese  early 
morning  hours,  which  otherwise  would  probably  be  turned 
to  little  accoinit,  save  the  more  valuable  iiours  of  the 
morning  and  al'ternoon. 

Each  of  the;  IMiilo-opliy  Classes  meets  two  hours  a 
day.  The  morning  hour  is  occupied  by  a  lecture  ;  and 
an  hour  later  in  the  day  is  given  to  the  examination  of 
the  students  on  the  lectures  they  have  heard,  and  to 
hearing  them  read  essays  on  the  subjects  under  con- 
sideration. Thus  Scotch  students  have  the  pen  in  their 
hand  from  the  very  commencement  of  their  course  ;  and 
the  same  system  is  kept  up  to  the  close  of  even  the  long 
course  of  eight  years  for  tlie  churcii.  A  very  large  pro- 
portion of  young  men  thus  accpiire  no  inconsiderable 
command  of  that  noble  instrument,  the  English  language; 
which  is  very  seldom   written   with   ease   and   accuracy, 


COLLEGE   LIFE  AT  GLASGOW.  181 

except  as  the  re.>ult  of  long-continued  practice.  The 
lectures  read  are  verbatim  tlie  same,  session  alter  session, 
so  that  a  Scotch  Professor  of  Philosophy,  with  his  two 
hours  a  day  of  work,  and  his  six  months'  holiday  in  the 
pleasantest  part  of  the  year,  has  (once  his  course  of  lec- 
tures is  written)  a  very  comfortable  place  of  it. 

The  present  Pjofessor  of  Latin  (or  HumaiiitT/,  as  it 
is  called)  is  IMr.  Ramsay,  a  gi-aduate  of  Cambridge,  and 
the  author  of  the  work  on  "  Koman  Antiquities  "  in  the 
Encyclopcedia  MetropoUtana.  Mr.  Lushington  is  the 
Professor  of  Greek,  having  succeeded  Sir  Daniel  Sand- 
ford  in  1838.  He  was  the  first  Grecian  of  his  time  at 
Cambridge.  The  Chair  of  Logic  has  been  filled  by  Mr. 
Buchanan  for  many  years.  There  is  no  more  admira- 
ble teacher  in  the  University.  Many  a  young  man  has 
dated  his  intellectual  birth  to  the  period  of  his  attendance 
on  the  Logic  class  at  Glasgow.  Mr.  Buchanan  is  h 
clergyman  of  the  Scotch  church,  but  resigned  his  parish 
on  his  appointment  to  the  chair.  Dr.  Fleming  is  the 
Professor  of  INIoral  Philosophy  :  he,  too,  was  a  parish 
clergyman  before  his  appointment.  He  is  a  man  of  va-t 
information  in  every  department  of  metaphysical  phi- 
losophy, and  is,  perhaps,  not  surpassed  in  a  somewhat 
tawdry  eloquence  by  any  man  in  Scotland.  He  is  a 
heavy-looking  man  when  in  repose,  but  when  animated, 
brightens  up  wonderfully.  The  intensity  with  whicii  lie 
himself  feels,  gives  him  a  great  i)ower  in  moving  the 
fbilings  of  his  hearers.  INIr.  Thomson,  a  few  years  since 
second  Wrangler  and  first  Smith's  Prizeman,  is  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Natural  Pliilosophy.  He  took  a  leading  part 
in   the  laying  of  the  Atlantic  Telegrajih   Cable. 

At  the  end  of  three  years,  students  may  take  the  de- 
gree of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  on   passing  an  examination  in 


182  COLLEGE   LIFE  AT   GLASGOW. 

Classics,  Logic,  and  floral  Philosophy.  At  the  end  of 
four  years,  on  passing  a  I'urtlier  examination  in  Mathe- 
matics and  Natural  Pliilosophy,  they  may  lake  their 
Master's  degree.  Few  students  comparatively  graduate. 
It  is  not  necessary  in  order  to  enter  the  church ;  and  not 
many  young  men  are  willing  to  undertake  no  inconsider- 
able amount  of  study  to  attain  an  honor  which,  in  Scot- 
land, brings  with  it  no  advantage  whatever.  And  even 
the  small  fee,  of  from  tliree  to  five  guineas,  which  is  paid 
at  graduation,  is  a  serious  consideration  to  most  Scolch 
students.  A  university  education  in  Scotland,  comes  far 
down  in  the  social  scale;  ;  and  while  at  the  universities  of 
England  the  great  majority  of  the  young  men  are  the 
sorts  of  gentlemen,  in  Scotland  the  vast  preponderance 
consists  of  sons  of  farmers,  tradesmen,  and  woi'king  men  ; 
and  of  poor  lads,  without  relations  or  friends,  struggling 
on  amid  unheard-of  dilliculties  and  privations.  No  one 
can  look  round  the  benclies  of  any  class-room  in  Scotland, 
without  being  sti-uck  by  the  harsh  features  and  coarse  at- 
tire of  most  of  the  young  men  ;  no  one  can  converse  with 
nine  out  of  ten  of  them,  without  being  struck  by  their 
vulgar  accent  and  manner.  A  writer  in  the  Quarterly 
Review  perhaps  speaks  somewhat  severely  when  he  alludes 
to  "  those  tag-rag  and  bob-tail  concerns,  tiie  Scolch  Uni- 
versities : "  but  there  is  truth  in  Lockhart's  remark,  that  — 

A  person  whose  eyes  had  been  accustomed  only  to  sucli  places  as  tlie 
schools  of  Oxford,  would  certainly  be  very  nuicli  struck  w\t\\  tha  pri inn 
fiicie  mean  condition  of  the  majority  of  the  students  assembled  at  the 
prajlections  of  these  Edinburf^h  [and  Gla-f^ow]  professors.  Here  and 
there  one  sees  some  small  scattered  remnant  of  the  great  flock  of  dan- 
die<,  trying  to  keep  each  other  in  countenance,  in  a  corner  of  the  class- 
room;  but  these  only  heighten,  by  the  contrast  of  their  presence,  the 
general  effect  of  the  slovenly  and  dirty  mass  which  on  every  side  sur- 
roum'.s  them  with  its  contaminating  atmosphere. 1 

1  PeUr's  Letters.     Vol.  i.  p.  187. 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT   GLASGOW.  183 

Yet  ability  is  given  by  nature  with  little  regard  to  social 
position  :  many  of  those  rough  specimens  of  humanity 
possess  no  ordinary  talent  ;  many  will  take  on  polish 
wonderfully,  before  they  pass  from  college  to  life  :  and 
there  is  really  a  deep  pathos  in  the  story  of  toil,  priva- 
tion, and  resolution,  which  is  the  story  of  many  a  Glasgow 
student's  college  days. 

There  are,  of  course,  young  men  of  good  families  at 
Glasgow  College.  There  are  students  who  wear  all- 
round  collars  of  extreme  stiffness,  who  walk  down  to 
their  classes  from  the  aristocratic  districts  of  Blylhswood- 
square  and  Woodside-torrace ;  who  are -in  much  request 
at  evening  parties,  and  who  sti-ut  in  the  afternoon  in  the 
Sauchyhall-road,  the  fashionable  promenade  of  Glasgow. 
But  most  of  the  students  live  in  very  plain  lodgings,  in 
various  parts  of  the  town,  and  know  no  more  of  Glasgow 
society  than  if  they  were  living  in  the  Sandwich  I-lands. 
There  are  some  streets  near  the  College,  consisting  of 
tall  houses  divided  into  flats,  in  which  great  ninid)rrs  of 
students  dwell.  The  life  of  almost  all  is  one  of  struggle 
and  self-denial.  It  touches  us,  and  that  deeply,  to  think 
of  poor  lads  of  eighteen  or  nineteen,  toiling  on  with  their 
studies,  witii  many  a  thought  as  to  how  they  are  to  get 
food  and  raiment ;  with  all  those  cares  upon  their  heads 
which  are  heavy  enough,  God  knows,  when  thi'v  pre9.s 
upon  matiu'cr  years,  yet  supported  by  the  h(i])i'  that  at 
some  time  in  the  distant  future  they  may  get  into  the 
church  at  last,  or  even  into  a  pari.di  school.  What  a 
princely  dwelling  nuist  a  country  manse  seem  to  such  ; 
what  an  inexhaustible  revenue  a  living  of  three  or  four 
hundred  a  year!  "We  have  been  told  that  many  students 
liave  managed  to  live  upon  fifteen  or  twenty  pounds  a 
year.     After  writing  this,  we   were   almost  slartled  on  re- 


184  COLLEGE  LIFE  AT   GLASGOW. 

cuniiig  to  it ;  but  ]Mr.  Lockhart,  a  Glasgow  student  liiiii' 
self,  and  tlie  son  of  a  Glasgow  miiii>ler,  cuuiirins  us:  "1 
am  asiuired,"  lie  say^,  "  that  tlu^givat  majority  of  stuflents 
here  have  seldom  more  thau  thirty  or  forty  pounds  per 
annum,  and  that  very  many  most  respectable  students  con- 
trive to  do  with  little  more  than  half  so  much  money"  * 
()ur  readers  may  perhaps  remember  the  touching  fact  re- 
corded in  the  life  of  Dr.  Adam,  the  \erv  (-minent  Rector 
of  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh,  —  that  when  at  Col 
lege,  his  dinner  consisted  of  a  penny  roll ;  and  that  to  save 
the  expense  of  a  tire,  he  was  accustomed  to  eat  it  as  he 
climbed  some  long  and  lonely  stair  in  the  Old  Town, 
where  there  are  houses  of  fourteen  stories  in  height."^ 
We  have  heard  of  students  from  Ireland  who  brought 
with  them  a  bag  of  scones,  or  cakes  of  oatmeal,  on  which 
alone  they  lived  in  some  poor  garret.  And  many  a  \)oov 
family  is  pinching  it.-clf  at  home,  to  keep  the  clever  son 
at  College.  A  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Scotland 
who  published  a  work  on  Clerical  Economics  dedicated  it 
"  To  a  father  who,  on  a  hundred  pounds  a  year,  brought 
up  six  sons  to  learned  professions,  and  who  has  often  sent 
his  last  shilling  to  each  of  them  in  their  turn,  when  they 
were  at  College."  The  motto  whicii  Sydney  Smith  pro- 
posed for  the  J'Jdinlmrgk  Revieio,  "  Tenui  mnsam  viedita' 
mur  dvena"  —  "We  cultivate  literature  on  a  little  oat- 
meal," might  be  the  motto  of  many  a  Glasgow  student. 
A  few  years  since,  a  poor  fellow,  whose  education  was  so 
defi('ient  that  he  could  not  earn  anything  by  teaching 
others,  supported  himself  by  becoming  a  night-watchman, 
and  studied   his    Greek  Testament    by  the    light  of    the 

1  Peter's  Letters.    Yol.  i.  p.  193. 

2  "  Life  of  Dr.  Adam,"  in  Chambers'  Scottish  Biogrni^hical  DiclioH' 
mry. 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT   GLASGOW.  185 

Street  lamps.  The  Census  of  1851  in  Glasgow  was  in  a 
great  degree  taken  up  by  students,  thankful  thus  to  make 
a  few  shillings.  We  cannot  refrain  from  making  a  quo- 
tation which  tells  a  story  which,  to  our  per.-onal  knowledge 
is  true  in  scores  of  cases,  —  aye,  in  hundreds  :  — 

My  father  was  a  poor  man  —  a  common  working  wrij;l\t,  in  a  little 
village  not  far  from  Glasgow.  My  mother  and  he  pinched  themselves 
blue  to  give  me  my  education.  I  went  to  college  when  I  was  abcul 
fifteen  years  old,  and  they  sent  me  in  cheese  and  vegetables,  even  oat- 
meal to  make  my  porridge,  every  week  by  the  carrier.  I  diil  not  taste 
butcher's  meat  three  times,  I  believe,  in  the  first  three  years  I  was  a 
student.  But  then  I  began  to  do  something  for  myself.  I  got  a  little 
private  teaching,  and  by  degrees  cea.*ed  to  be  a  burdon  on  Ihe  old  peo- 
ple. Step  by  step  I  wrought  on,  till  I  became  tutor  in  a  gentleman's 
family.  Tlien  I  was  licensed,  and  I  remained  a  preacher  for  twenty 
yea,-s^  — sometimes  living  in  a  family,  sometimes  teaching  from  house 
to  house,  and  latterly  I  had  a  school  of  my  own  in  Glasgow.  I  was 
forty  years  old  and  upwards  ere  I  got  the  kirk,  Mr.  Wald;  and  my 
dear  parents  never  lived  to  see  me  in  it.t 

Not  less  true  and  not  less  touching  is  another  passage 
from  the  same  masterly  pen  :  — 

If  I  was  poor,  I  had  no  objections  to  living  poorly.  After  attendmg 
classes  and  hospitals  from  daybreak  to  sunset,  I  contented  myself  with 
a  dinner  and  supper  in  one,  of  bread  and  milk,  —  or  perhaps  a  mess  of 
potatoes,  with  salt  fur  their  only  sauce.  A  deal  fable,  a  liall'-brol<«n 
chair,  and  a  straw  pallet,  were  all  the  furniture  I  had  about  me;  and 
very  rarely  did  I  indulge  myself  with  a  fire.  But  I  could  wraj)  a 
blanket  over  my  legs,  trim  my  lamp,  and  plunge  into  the  world  of 
books,  and  forget  every  tiling.^ 

There  is  not  a  whit  of  exaggeration  in  Sir  Waller 
Scott's  description  of  lli*;  early  struggles  of  Dominie 
Sampson.  And  we  confess  we  cannot  read  without  emo- 
tion the  description  in  Matflieio  Wald,  of  tiie  poor  tutor 
going  for  his  evening's  work  with  his  pujiils,  to  the  house 

1  IT!slor,j  of  M  illheiv  Wald,  pp.  143-9. 

2  MaUheto  WnUi,  203-5.- 


18G  COLLEGE   LIFE  AT  GLASGOW. 

of  some  wealthy  burpjes.-:,  mid  l)eing  saluted  in  liis  lobby 
'*  witli  the  amiable  f'i-a;fraiice  of  soup,  roast  meat,  ruin- 
puiudi,  and  the  like  dainties,"  himself  just  from  his  spare 
mess  of  potatoes  and  salt.  Ah,  there  is  much  [)athos 
about  the  daily  life  of  the  poor  students  of  Glasgow  ! 
Let  no  one  indulge  in  the  heartless  sneer  at  the  poor 
fellow's  threadbare  coat,  his  whity-brown  paper,  his  linen 
Bv)  coarse  that  it  looks  like  sail-cloth,  his  patched  boots 
and  his  worn  anxious  face.  God  bless  him,  and  hel[ 
him,  .say  we  !  Speak  kindly  to  him,  dandified  young 
student;  deal  gently  with  him,  grave  professor  ;  his  heart 
is  very  likely  so  full  already  that  it  will  almost  break 
with  <me  drof)  more.  lie  is  the  hope  and  pride,  and  the 
anxious  care,  too,  of  some  poor  family  far  away,  whose 
members  are  grinding  themselves  down  to  life's  last 
nece.-^saries  to  give  him  advantages  which  (sad  that  in 
the  nature  of  things  it  must  be)  will,  when  obtained, 
draw  a  line  of  separation  between  him  and  themselves. 
They  will  make  him,  j)erhaps,  the  scholar  and  the  gentle- 
man, but  all  this  will  only  serve  to  introduce  him  into  a 
world  of  which  they  know  nothing.  They  may  be  proud 
of  him  still,  when  he  gets  a  kirk  at  last ;  but  he  will  pcr- 
fiaps  marry  a  lady,  and  then  they  will  hardly  ever  see 
liim,  and  it  will  be  with  a  vague,  blank  feeling  of  di.sap- 
pointment  when  they  do.  And  the  old  parents  —  it  may 
be,  left  alone  in  the  last  days  of  life,  with  the  single  re- 
turn for  years  of  struggle,  that  they  can  say  that  the  .son 
whom  they  hardly  ever  see,  is  a  parish  minister  a  hun- 
dred miles  off — may  think  that,  after  all,  it  might 
ha\e  been  better  had  he  saved  his  home-bred  virtues  in 
bis  parents'  lowly  lot,  and  by  his  daily  presence  smoothed 
his  parents'  passage  to  their  lowly  grave. 

It  is  sad  to  think   that  not  unfrequently  all  this  effort 


COLLEGE   LIl'E  AT   GLASGOW.  187 

and  self-denial  on  the  part  of  the  ftimily  at  home,  and  the 
student  at  college,  are  found  in  the  case  of  poor  fellows 
who  are  so  completely  deficient  in  ability,  that  it  is  impos- 
sible that  they  should  ever  get  on  in  life.  The  Divinity 
Hall  of  each  University  is  never  without  a  sprinkling  of 
lads  who  would  have  made  excellent  ploughmen,  or 
schoolmasters,  or  me(;hanics,  but  whose  whole  future  life 
must  be  blasted  by  the  unfortunate  fact  that  nothing 
would  serve  themselves  or  their  relations  but  that  they 
must  try  to  get  into  the  ciiurch.  We  have  known  of 
poor  deformed  creatures  who  toiled  and  starved  on  year 
after  year,  hoping,  with  a  despairing  earnestness  that  in 
some  cases  settled  down  into  monomania,  tiiat  they  might 
yet  pass  the  Presbytery,  and  be  presented  to  a  living.  It 
is  a  very  painful  duty  which  the  Presbyteries  have  some- 
times to  perform,  in  rejecting  applicants  for  orders  who 
are  manifestly  unfit,  yet  whose  rejection  crushes  the 
cherished  hopes  and  foils  the  utmost  endeavors  of  a  poor 
family  for  many  years.  We  believe  that  such  a  case  has 
been  as  that  sucli  a  person  has  come  up  for  examination 
five  or  six  successive  times  at  intervals  of  a  year  or  two, 
before  abandoning  the  liope  of  passing.  We  have  heard 
of  a  case  in  which  a  grown-up  man,  on  being  told  by  the 
INIoderator  or  President  of  the  Presbytery  tiiat  he  "  was 
recommended  still  further  to  prosecute  his  studies,"  the 
mild  tbrmula  by  whicli  rejection  is  conveyed,  dropped 
senseless  on  the  lloor  of  the  court,  and  lay  for  long  as 
dead.  We  know  of  a  case  in  which  a  person,  in  like 
manner  rejected,  liad  to  be  conveyed  to  a  place  of  re- 
straint, a  wild  raving  maniac.  The  dogged  energy  and 
determination  of  the  Scottish  character  can  bear  a  man 
through  almost  anything  so  long  as  hoi)e  remains  ;  but 
when  the  last  hope  breaks  down,  we  believe  that  the  firm 


188  COLLEGE  LIFE  AT  GLASGOW. 

Scottish  heart  may  be  roused  to  u  frenzy  of  despair  83 
keen  as  ever  stirred  in  the  hot  blood  of  the  tropics. 

Those  students  who  aie  poor  and  wlio  possess  fair 
scholar.-lii|),  very  generally  maintain  themselves  by  pri- 
vate teat'liing.  They  instruct  lads  in  the  junior  classes, 
hastening  froni  liou<e  to  house  in  the  evenings,  and  Uhu- 
ally  remaining  one  hour  with  each  pupil.  The  fee  ibr 
such  attendance  is  a  guinea  a  month.  We  find  it  men- 
tioned in  the  Life  of  James  Halley,  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  Glasgow  students  in  recent  years,  that  dur 
ing  the  period  in  which  he  made  his  reputation,  "  liis 
principal  source  of  maintenance  was  tlie  product  of  his 
own  exertion  as  a  private  tutor.  A  very  considerable 
portion  of  liis  time — always  four,  and  sometime  five, 
hours  a  day  —  was  taken  up  in  this  way.  This  very 
materially  enhances  his  merit  in  maintaining  so  high  a 
po-itiun  in  all  the  classes."  ^  Campbell  the  poet,  writing 
of  a  period  when  he  was  just  eighteen  years  old,  records 
that  "  after  my  return  from  Mull,  I  supported  myself 
during  the  winter  by  private  tuition."  -  We  have  known 
of  students  who  made  a  respectable  figure  in  their  classes, 
who  were  engaged  in  teaching  Ibr  six,  eight,  or  ten  hours  a 
day.  There  are  a  great  many  exhibitions,  or  Bursaries^  as 
they  are  called,  which  are  intended  to  aid  deserving  stu- 
dents. These  vary  in  amount  from  three  or  four  pounds 
a  year  up  to  ibrty.  But,  unlia[)pily,  hardly  any  of  tliena 
are  open  to  competition,  and  tliey  are  very  frequently 
given  to  those  students  who  least  need  them  and  least 
deserve  them. 

On  the  whole,  looking  at  the  way  in   which  Glasgow 

1  Memoir  of  James  Ilclley,  B.A.,  Student  of  Thculorjy,  p.  ]7.     Edin- 
ourgh.    1842. 

2  Life,  prefixed  to  Poems.    Edition  of  1851;  p.  28. 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT   GLASGOW.  18S 

Students  geneially  do   live,  and   tlie   way   in   wliich   they 

may  live,  we  must  admit  tiiat  it  was  not  wiiliout  reason 

that  the  old  Ghisgow   merchant  in  Cyril  Thornton  hoast- 

cd  of    tlie   accessibility   of   a    Scotch    University   eduea 

tioii  :  — 

So  yo've  come  down  here  to  be  a  collijaginev.  It's  a  lang  gait  to 
giing  for  learning.  But  after  a',  I  am  no  sure  tiiat  j-ou  could  ha'e 
(lone  Ijutter.  Our  colleges  here  are  no  bund  down  like  j-otirs  in  the 
south,  by  a  whccn  auld  and  tizzionlcss  rules,  and  we  diiina  say  to  ilka 
student,  eitlier  bring  three  hundred  pounds  in  your  pouch,  or  gang 
about  your  business.  We  dinna  lock  the  door  o'  learning,  as  they  do 
at  Oxford  and  Candn-idge,  and  shut  out  a'  that  canna  bring  a  gouden 
key  in  their  hand,  but  keep  it  on  the  sueck.  that  onybody  that  likes 
may  open  it.^ 

At  tiie  end  of  the  fonr  yeai-s'  course  in  Arts,  students 
for  the  church  begin  their  tlieological  studies,  which  ex- 
tend over  four  years  more.  On  '•  (Altering  the  Divinity 
Hall,"  as  it  is  termed,  the  student  lavs  aside  the  red 
gown,  and  for  the  remainder  of  his  college  course  wears 
no  distinguishing  dress.  Din-ing  each  of  these  four  ses- 
sions he  attends  the  lectures  of  the  Professor  of  The- 
ology, and  the  lectures  of  the  Professors  of  Hebrew  and 
Church  History  for  two  sessions  each.  The  Professor  of 
Theology  is  necessarily  a  clergyman,  and  is,  ex  officio,  a 
member  of  the  Presbytery  of  Glasgow.  Laymen  are  eli- 
gible for  the  Chairs  of  Hebrew  and  Church  History  ;  but 
in  |)i;»clice  they  are  always  filled  by  clergymen.  Dr.  Hill 
is  tlie  Professor  of  Theology  ;  Mr.  Weir,  a  yoinig  clergy- 
man, has  lately  succeeded  to  the  Chair  of  Hebrew  ;  and 
that  of  Chin-ch  History  is  filled  by  Dr.  Jackson,  an  able 
man,  whose  besetting  sin  is  a  tendency  to  become  most 
abstrusely  metaphy.-ical  in  his  lectures.  The  Hebrew 
class  is  taught  very  much  as  the  Latin  and  Greek  classes 
1  You'll  ni'l  ifanhood  of  Cyril  Thornton.     Vol.  i.  p.  60. 


190  COLLKGE   LIFE  AT   GLASGOW. 

are.  ;  tlie  Tlieology  and  Church  History,  like  the  Phi- 
lorophy  classes.  The  number  of  students  attending  the 
Divinity  Hall  is,  we  believe,  above  a  hundred.  The  va- 
cancies in  the  Church  caused  by  death  average  about 
tiiirty-five  annually,  and  Glasgow  College  alone  could 
supply  nearly  that  number  of  candidates  for  orders. 
Tiie  University  of  Edinburgh  turns  out  yeai'ly  almost 
as  many;  the  Universities  of  St.  Andrew's  and  Aberdeen 
as  many  more.  Our  readers  may  suppose  that  there  is  a 
l)retty  sharp  competition  for  every  living  that  becomes  va- 
cant, while  the  supply  is  thus  nearly  threefold  in  excess 
of  the  demand. 

After  ihe  student  for  the  Cliurch  has  completed  his  col- 
lege course,  he  applies  for  orders  to  the  Presbyteiy  with- 
in whose  bounds  he  resides.  He  is  "  taken  on  trials  "  by 
that  Church-court.  He  is  examined  in  all  tiie  branches 
he  has  studied  at  college,  and  is  required  to  compose  and 
read  to  the  Presbytery  five  or  six  discourses.  These 
"  trials  "  occupy  perhaps  six  months,  at  the  end  of  wliich 
time  he  is  licens(!(l  to  preacli.  Hi;  is  not  permitted  to 
administer  the  sacraments  until  he  has  been  oi-dained; 
and  in  practice  no  one  is  ever  ordained  till  he  has  been 
appointed  to  a  church  as  minister.  It  will  thus  be  seen 
that  nearly  nine  years  pass  from  the  time  a  student  en- 
ters college,  down  to  the  period  at  which  he  is  licensed 
to  preach.  If  licensed  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  as  is 
not  unfrequently  the  case,  having  left  off  his  classical 
studies  six  or  seven  years  before,  it  may  be  left  to  our 
readers  to  imagine  how  much  claim  he  can  have  to  l>e 
regarded  as  a  scholar,  in  the  P^nglish  sense.  We  think 
that  reform  in  the  Scotch  University  system  is  impera 
lively  needed,  and  in  no  respect  more  imperatively  than 
in    the   abbreviation    of    the    enormous    course    for   the 


COLLEGE  LIFE  IN   GLASGOW.  191 

Church.  To  finish  tliat  course  in  anything  hke  rea- 
sonable time,  the  student  must  enter  college  at  an  ab- 
surdly early  age. 

Tiie  corapeiition  for  academic  honors  is  as  keen  at 
jlasgow  as  it  can  be  anywhere.  The  prizes  lor  general 
tminence  in  each  cla-s  are  voted  by  the  students  in  it,  at 
the  end  of  the  se-sion.  The  prizes  are  almost  always 
g\\in  with  perfect  fairness  ;  so  the  system  is  better  in 
practice  than  it  looks  in  theory.  When  ten  or  twelve 
prizes  are  given  in  a  class,  it  may  be  supposed  that  the 
degrees  of  merit  are  less  strongly  marked  among  the  low- 
est on  the  list  of  prizemen,  and  private  feeling  may 
weigh  in  the  adjudication  of  the  inferior  prizes.  But 
there  is  hardly  an  instance  on  record  of  the  first,  second, 
or  third  prize  going  otherwise  than  as  the  professor 
would  have  awarded  it.  The  first  prize  in  each  class  is 
of  course  a  matter  of  special  ambition  ;  it  has  often  been 
contested  with  an  eagerness  [)rejudicial  to  health  and  even 
life.  We  have  known  of  Glasgow  students  who  for  five 
months  of  the  session,  have  allowed  themselves  not  more 
than  three  or  four  hours  of  slet'i)  nightly,  the  entire  wak- 
ing day  being  devoted  to  study.  In  such  cases  the  fe- 
verish anxiety  of  the  competition  has  sometimes  kept  up 
the  student  in  working  trim  to  tiie  end  of  the  session, 
while  at  its  close,  the  stimulus  removed,  he  has  utterly 
broken  down.  The  higher  Latin  and  Greek  prizes  arc 
keenly  contested,  as  success  in  obtaining  any  of  them 
marks  out  a  student  tor  appointment  to  one  of  the  Snell 
Exhibitions.  Under  the  Snell  endowment,  the  Univer- 
sity of  Glasgow  sends  ten  students  to  Balliol  College, 
Oxford,  giving  to  four  of  them  a  stipend  of  £13')  a  year 
each,  and  to  the  remaining  six  £120  a  year  each.  These 
exhibitions  are  tenable  for  ten  years.    And  tor  the  credit 


192  COLLEGE  LIFE  AT  GLASGOW. 

of  the  University,  the  piofesi^ors  generally  send  to  Ox 
ford  the  best  classical  students  who  are  willing  to  go. 
Classical  learning,  however,  is  undervalued  in  Scotland, 
and  the  principal  honors  of  the  University  go  for  pro- 
ficiency in  Mental  Philosophy,  in  its  various  departments. 
For  students  who  purpose  completing  llieir  course  in 
Scotland,  the  tt^.-ting  classes  are  tiiose  of  Logic  and  Moral 
Philosophy  —  Moral  Pliiloso])iiy  implying  at  Glasgow  a 
complete  cour-e  of  Metaphy.-ics.  Whoever  obtains  the 
first  prize  in  that  class,  is  pretty  sale  to  cany  the  honors 
of  the  Divinity  cla-^ses.  The  work  of  these  clashes  de- 
mands the  sauie  kind  of  ability  ;  and,  with  the  exception 
of  importations  from  other  universities,  which  are  rarely 
of  first-class  students,  the  competition  in  these  classes  will 
be  with  the  same  men. 

Among  the  most  coveted  distinctions  of  the  University, 
ai'e  the  prizes  for  the  "  University  Plssays."  These  prizes 
are  eiglil  or  nine  in  number  annually,  and  the  competi- 
tion tor  them  is  extensive.  Two  gold  medals,  given  on 
alteruate  years,  are  open  to  liie  competition  of  all  stu- 
dents attending  any  class  in  the  University  ;  one  of  these 
is  given  for  an  essay  in  history,  the  other  for  an  essay  in 
j)olitical  economy.  Tiieii  there  are  one  or  two  j)rize3 
()])en  to  the  competition  of  all  students  of  theology  ;  two 
or  three  to  all  students  of  philosophy;  one  to  all  student.^ 
of  medicine.  The  following,  from  the  published  pi'ize 
list,  will  give  an  idea  of  the  kind  of  suljects  presciibed. 

In  1842,  the  Gartmore  gold  medal  was  given  for  the 
best  essay  on  ''The  Expediency  or  Inexpediency  of 
Capital  Punishments."  In  1841.  for  the  best  essay  on 
"Secondary  Punishments."  In  1848.  for  the  best  essay 
on  "Under  what  Circumstances,  and  in  what  Mode, 
^hould  a  Constitutional  State  encourage  Erai<xration  .''  " 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT  GLASGOW.         193 

In  1843,  the  Ewing  gold  medal  was  given  for  the  best 
account  of  "  The  CM'cu;n.stances  which  led  to  the  Peace 
of  Westphalia  in  1648,  with  the  Results  of  that  Treaty." 
In  1845,  the  subject  was,  '"An  Account  of  the  First  Par- 
tition of  Poland  in  1772."  In  1847,  "An  Account  of 
the  Establishment  ami  Progress  of  the  British  Empire  in 
India,  to  the  termination  of  the  Government  of  Warren 
Hastings."  Among  the  subjects  to  be  written  on  in  dif- 
ferent years  by  studt^iits  of  Philosophy,  we  lind  "An 
Analysis  of  the  Faculty  of  Judging;"  "Poetic  Diction, 
its  Use  and  Abuse  by  the  Orators;"  "The  Nature  and 
Influence  of  Motives  in  Moral  Action  ;  "  "  The  Historical 
Episode  and  its  Conditions,  Ci-itically  Considered,  Illus- 
trated by  Examples  ; "  "A  Classification  and  Analysis 
of  the  Passions."  Among  the  subjects  for  students  of 
Theology,  we  have,  "  The  Analogy  of  the  Mosaic  and 
Christian  Dispensations;"  "The  Extent  of  the  Atone- 
ment of  Ciirist ;  "  "  Baptismal  Regeneration  ;  "  "  Apos- 
tolical Succession  ;  "  "  Auricular  Confession."  And  in 
Physics,  "The  Principles  and  Practicability  of  Atmos- 
pheric Railways;"  "The  Form  and  Construction  of 
Arclies;"  "The  Methods  of  Supplying  Large  Towns 
with  Water." 

These  essays  are  very  laboriously  written.  They  are 
often  complete  works  on  the  subjects  proposed,  extending 
to  some  hundreds  of  pages,  and  the  result  of  original  re- 
search and  protracted  thought.  We  have  reason  to  i:now 
that  the  prize  essays  written  by  one  very  successful  stu- 
dent in  one  year  extended  to  nearly  two  thousand  pages. 
There  are  generally  two  or  three  of  tlie  University  essay 
prizes  open  to  the  competition  of  each  student  each  year ; 
and  besides  the  prizes  for  general  eminence  voted  by  the 
students,  there  is  usually,  in  each  class,  a  prize  for  an 
13 


194  COLLKGE  LIFE  AT  GLASGOW. 

e.'^ay,  wliidi  is  adjiidicated  by  the  professor.  A  stm^enl 
of  extraordinary  eiiersy  may  tiiiis  compete  for  live  or  si:£ 
essay  prizes  in  one  session.  Sometimes  a  n)an  who  has 
cari-ied  all  the  honors  wliicli  belong  to  his  own  depart- 
ment, makes  an  excursion  into  another  field,  to  find  a 
fresh  subject  and  new  competitors.  An  amusing  instance 
of  this  is  recorded  in  the  Life  of  Halley :  — 

In  the  summer  of  1834  he  enrolled  as  a  student  in  the  botanical  class. 
This  was  done  chieHy  with  a  view  to  benefit  his  health.  Tiie  garden 
in  which  the  lecture-room  was  situated  lay  at  a  distance  of  about  two 
miles  from  his  |)lace  of  residence,  ajul  the  hour  of  lecture  was  from 
eight  to  nine  in  the  morninj^.  This  secured  for  three  months  a  system 
of  early  and  regular  exercise.  It  happened  that  during  that  session  a 
gentleman,  whose  name  was  not  given,  empowered  Ur.  (now  Sir  Wil- 
liam) Hooker  to  ofl'er  a  gnld  medal  for  the  best  essay  on  "  The  Natural 
History  and  Uses  of  the  Potato."  Halley  hiul  not  paid  much  attention 
to  the  study  of  botany,  and  the  prescribed  subject  of  the  essay  did  not 
at  all  lie  in  his  way,  yet  he  determined  to  write  by  way  of  amusement, 
and,  as  he  said,  "to  beat  the  medicals."  The  result  was  a  treatise 
of  172  closely-written  quarto  pages  It  was  jjronounced  the  best;  and 
the  interloper  carried  off  the  medal,  fairly  won,  from  the  medic£.l  stu- 
dents on  their  own  proper  field.  Whether  tiiis  achievement  bad  found 
its  way  into  the  Farmer's  Mmjnzine.  we  cannot  tell,  but  it  had  nearly 
procured  for  him  a  reputation  of  which  he  was  not  desirous.  One  day 
a  stranger  was  ushered  into  his  room,  announcing  himself  as  an  Irish 
agriculturist,  who  had  devoted  considerable  attention  to  the  failure  of 
the  potato  crop.  Having  heard  that  .Mr.  Halley  had  been  studying 
the  same  subject,  he  had  waited  upon  him  to  hear  the  result  of  his 
researches.  Mr.  Halley  received  his  visitor  with  due  politeness  an  I 
gravity;  laid  aside  bis  folios,  and  entered,  with  all  becoming  solem- 
nity, ir'to  the  comparative  merits  of  late  and  early  planting  —  of  wlicle 
setsajil  single  eyes,  and  alter  a  long  consultation  dismissed  his  visiter, 
t  ighly  delighted  with  the  interview. ^ 

The  subjfH'ts  of   the  University  prize  essays  are  an- 
nounced on  the  first  of  ]May  in  each  year;  the  essays  are 
taken  into  the  Pi-incii)al's  liou.se  in  December  following. 
Each  essay  bears  two  inottoes,  and  is  accompanied  by  a 
1  Halley's  Life,  pp.  23,  24. 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT  GLASGOW.  195 

sealed  letter  beiiring  the  ?arae  mottoes,  and  containing 
the  name  of  tlie  author,  with  a  declaration  that  the  essay 
is  of  his  unaided  oomi)osiiion.  The  successful  essay  is 
announced  at  tlie  distribution  of  prizes  in  the  Common 
Hall  on  the  first  of  May,  and  the  letter  containing  the 
author's  name  is  ojiened  in  the  presence  of  the  assembled 
Comitia.  The  other  letters  are  destroyed  unopened. 
The  prize  essay  is  placed  in  tlie  library,  where,  however, 
it  is  accessible  only  to  the  professors.  A  proof  how  fairly 
the  students  vote  the  liighest  prizes,  is  furnished  by  the 
fact  that  these  prizes  lor  essays,  adjudicated  by  the  pro- 
fessors in  utter  ignorance  of  their  authorship,  are  given 
in  nineteen  cases  out  of  twenty  to  students  who  have 
"taken"  (such  is  the  college  phrase)  the  first  prize  in 
their  r('S|)ective  classes  by  the  students'  votes.  We  have 
examined  the  prize-list  for  a  number  of  years,  and  we  find 
that  the  honors  awarded  by  students  and  professors  alino-.t 
invariabl}'  fall  to  the  same  men. 

The  distribution  of  prizes  on  May-day  is  a  gay  scene. 
Student^*  and  professors  alike  are  in  high  spirits  in  the 
anticipation  of  their  holiday  time.  Tickets  of  admission 
to  the  ceremony  are  in  great  request.  Our  readers  may 
l)erha[)S  remember  that  the  first  poetical  composition  of 
the  author  of  the  Pleasures  of  Hope,  was  A  Description 
of  the  DistJ'ibution  of  Prizes  in  the  Common  Hall  of  the 
University  of  Glasgow,  on  the  Jirsl  of  May,  17'J3.  All 
old  Glasgow  students  have  many  pleasant  associations 
with  this  day  of  the  year. 

Tlie  first  of  JI:iy  is  the  day  fixed  by  immemorial  ii^sage  in  the  Uni- 
versity for  the  (li.stril)iition  of  the  prizes,  a  day  looked  forward  to  with 
"  hopes,  and  fears  that  kin^lle  hope,'"  by  many  ^-outhful  and  ardent 
spirits.  The  Great  ILiU  of  tlie  collej^e  'in  that  day  iert;iinly  presents 
R  very  pleasini;  and  animated  spectacle  The  academical  distinctions 
tre  bestowed  with  much  of  ceremonial  pomp,  in  the  presence  of  a  vast 


106  corLE(;ii:  life  at  Glasgow. 

cnnt'oiirse  of  spectator?,  and  it  is  not  uninteresting  to  nrirk  the  flush 
(if  baslifiil  triunipli  on  the  cheek  of  the  victor;  tlie  sparklin.i;  of  his 
downcast  eye  as  the  hall  is  rent  witli  loud  applause,  when  he  advances 
to  receive  the  liadjje  of  honor  assi;;ned  him  l)y  the  voice  of  his  fellow- 
students.  It  is  altogether  a  sight  to  s*ir  the  spirit  in  the  youthful 
bosom,  and  stimulate  into  healthy  action  faculties  which,  but  for  such 
excitement,  might  have  continued  in  unbroken  slumber.l 

The  Common  Hall  is  a  y)laiii  squai'e  apartmenl.  with  a 
frallcfv  at  eitch  (jnd.  It  is  capable  of  containinn;  about  a 
thou  and  pefsons.  Aloiijj  one  side  inns  a  raised  bendi, 
oeeupied  by  the  pi'of'essofs.  Tlie  Principal  presides  at 
I  lie  distribution,  unless  wlien  the  Lord  Rector  is  present. 
Lonu  before  the  appointed  hour,  which  is  always  ten 
A.  M.,  the  body  of  the  hall  is  tlironj^ed  with  students, 
and  the  ojtilleries  with  ladies.  The  students  beguile  the 
time  by  tlirowing  volleA'S  of  peas  at  one  another;  after  a 
distril)ution.  several  bushels  are  gathered  np  from  the 
floor.  There  is  a  prescriptive  toleration  for  peas,  but  no 
other  missile  is  permitted;  and  a  strong-minded  man  who 
introduced  eggs,  narrowly  esca{)ed  expulsion.  The  bald 
heads  of  some  of  the  servants  |)resent  tempting  marks, 
and  are  furiously  assiiiled.  At  length  the  professors  (all 
of  whom  wear  gowns)  enter  in  ])rocession,  preceded  by 
the  bedellus,  bearing  a  liuge  mace  of  silver.  A  prayer  in 
Latin  is  offered  by  the  Principal.  Then  the  University 
()rize  essays  are  announced  ;  the  letters  containing  the 
authors'  names  are  opened,  and  the  prizes  are  delivered 
.()  the  successful  students  by  the  Lord  Rector  or  Principal. 
The  divinity  prizes  are  given  next ;  liien  the  medical, 
then  the  philosophy  and  classical.  The  proceedings  are 
o\er  about  one  o'clock  ;  and  ere  the  sun  has  set,  the  last 
red  gown,  now  sadly  faded  fi-oin  its  Xovcnil)(M'  In-iglit- 
ness,  has  disappeared  from  the  streets  of  Gla.-gow.     Tlie 

1  Cyril  TliomUm.    Vol.  i.  pp.  215,  216. 


COLLEGE    LIFE   AT   GLASGOW.  197 

students  are  scattered  over  the  country ;  tutors  in  gentle- 
men's families,  teaching  parish  schools,  acting  as  mis- 
Bionaries  or  catechists  under  the  clergy  of  large  towns, 
watching  sheep,  busy  at  farm-work,  and  some  of  the 
more  distinguished,  by  the  time  a  week  has  passed, 
busy  collecting  materials  for  next  year's  University 
essays. 

The  names  of  the  students  stand  in  the  class  catalogue 
in  Latin ;  and  the  professor,  in  addressing  a  student, 
uses  his  Latinized  Ciu'istian  name  in  the  vocative.  Tliei'e 
is  no  such  thing  known  in  Scotland  as  that  entire  sink- 
ing of  the  Christian  name  whicii  is  usual  in  the  public 
schools  of  PIngland.  At  one  period  the  professors  at 
Glasgow  always  addressed  their  students  in  the  Latin 
language.  The  impression  produced  on  a  stranger  was 
decidedly  that  of  the  ridiculous.  Mr.  Lockhart  tells  us 
that  when  he  went  to  the  class-room  of  Mr.  Young,  the 
very  eminent  Greek  Professor  at  Glasgow,  forty  years 
since,  the  first  thing  done  was  calling  over  the  roll  of 
the  class,  whicii  was  done  by  one  of  the  students  :  — 

Tlie  professor  was  quite  silent  during  this  space,  unless  where  some 
.all,  awkward  Irishman,  or  young  indigenous  blunderer  happened  to 
make  his  entree  in  a  manner  more  noisy  than  suited  the  place,  on 
which  occasion  a  sharp  cutting  voice  from  the  chair  was  sure  to  thrill 
in  their  ears  some  brief  but  decisive  query,  or  command,  or  rebuke:  — 
"  Quid  fifjris  tu,  in  isto  unijalo,  ptdibus  slrepitnns  tl  gnrritns  !  "  "  Cni'e 
tu  iibi,  Du(j(dde  J/'  Quhirter,  e(  tuns  res  ngns  !  "  "  Nvtetnr,  Phelimius 
0'  SliduyliHessji,  sero  ingrediens,  ut  solvat  daas  asses  sterlinenses  !  "  "  Ite- 
runme  admouendus  es,  Nicolaei  Jarvief  "  '''■Quid  hoc  rti,  Francisc* 
Wuj-per?"  &c.  S:c.  &c. 

The  custom  of  the  Professor  addressing  the  class  in 
Latin  has  now  almost  entirely  disappeared.  The  last 
vestiges  of  it  linger  in  the  Philosophy  class-rooms,  in 
such  beautifully  classical  sentences  as   "  Silentium,  geu- 


198  COLLEGE   LIFE   IN   GLASGOW. 

tleriion,  siliMitiuin  ! "  "  Nigellius  M'Lamrooh  i^  break- 
ing sileiuiiiinl"  The  fact  is,  the  custom  \va^  fouiul  to 
be  a  vciy  inconvcMiient  one  sit  once  to  professors  and 
students.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  most  of  tlie 
latter  understood  English  very  much  better  tiian  Latin, 
and  few  of  the  professors  had-  such  a  command  of  Latin 
as  to  be  able  to  express  themselves  in  it  correctly  wher 
they  got  angry.  It  is  a  tradition  in  Glasgow  College 
that  a  professor,  who  died  some  years  since,  once  com- 
manded a  noisy  student  to  be  still.  The  lad  replied 
that  he  had  been  f)erfectly  so.  The  professor's  indig- 
nation at  this  misstairment  was  too  nmeii  for  liis  Latin- 
it  y.  He  burst  out,  "  Noniie  video  te  jumpantem  over 
the  table!" 

The  University  library  is  a  very  good  one.  We  be- 
lieve that  in  Scotland  it  ranks  second  only  to  the  Advo- 
cates' library  in  Edinburgh.  It  was  founded  in  the 
fifteenth  century.  We  understand  that  the  Senate  can 
affoid  to  expend  on  the  purchase  of  new  books  about 
£1,000  a  year.  01"  this  sum  the  Treasury  pays  £700 
annually  as  compensation  ibr  the  loss  of  the  Stationers' 
Hall  privilege.  Each  student  has  likewise  to  pay  seven 
shillings  annually  to  the  librai-y,  iuul  in  return  has  the 
{)rivilege  of  having  two  volumes  at  a  time  during  the 
session  at  his  own  home,  and  of  consulting  as  many  as 
he  pleases  in  the  reading-room.  "  No  novels,  romances, 
tales,  nor  plays  "  are  lent  to  the  students.  These,  how- 
ever, pour  into  the  library  in  great  profusion  for  the  use 
of  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  professors. 

At  one  time,  degrees  in  Arts  were  granted  after  a 
merely  formal  examination.  The  examination  is  now 
a  real  one,  so  far  as  it  extends.  It  may  interest  some 
of  our  readers   to   know  its  extent.      For  the  ordinary 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT  GLASGOW.  199 

degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  the  subjects  of  examination 
are  as  follows  :  — 

In  Latin  :  Livy,  Three  Books  ;  Virgil,  -ZEneid,  Three 
Books  ;  Horace,  Odes,  Three  Book-;. 

In  Greek:  The  Four  Gospels;   Homer,  Three  Books. 

In  Logic  :  The  Intellectual  Powers  ;  the  Ancient  or 
Aristotelian  Logic  ;  the  Modern  or  Inductive  Logic 

In  Moral  Philosophy  :  The  Intellectural,  Active,  and 
Moral  Powers  ;  the  Will  ;  Practical  Ethics  ;  Nat- 
ural Theology. 

To  obtain  the  degree  of  M.  A.,  the  student  must  fur- 
ther be  examined 

In  Natural  Philosophy  :  The  subjects  lectured  on  in 
the  cla>s. 

In  Mathematics;  Euclid,  first  Six  Books;  Plane  Trig- 
onometry; Simple  and  Quadratic  Equations. 

For   the    degrees  Avith    honors,   the    examinations   are 
much  more  severe. 

The  examinations  for  degrees  are  held  on  the  Thurs- 
days in  March  and  April.  With  very  little  exception, 
they  are  conducted  vivd  voce.  The  statute  requires  that 
they  should  take  place  in  the  presence  of  at  least  two 
professors,  but  in  practice  the  candidate  for  a  degree  is 
examined  in  each  branch  by  the  professor  under  whom 
he  has  studied  it,  the  other  professor  present  not  inter 
fering  in  the  examination,  nor  even  attending  to  it.  A 
strong  effort  has  been  made  of  late  years  to  raise  the 
standard  of  attainiufur  required  in  graduates  ;  and  some- 
times as  many  as  one  tliird  of  tlie  students  who  go  up  for 
examination  are  plucked.  In  the  good  old  times  no  one 
was  ever  rejected  ;  to  ask  for  a  degree,  and  to  gi^t  it,  were 
convertible  terms.  We  have  already  stalled  that  very  many 
students  take  no  degree;  no  advantaij;e  is  derived  in  after- 


200  COLLEGE   LIFE   AT   GLASGOW. 

life  from  having  taken  one.  It  is  not  required  of  men  en- 
tering the  Church,  that  tliey  sliouhl  have  one.  And  in 
the  case  of  the  ordinary  run  of  young  men,  whose  desire 
is  to  get  througli  their  "  curriculum  "  with  as  little  trouhle 
as  possible,  it  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  some  toil  and 
some  anxiety  will  be  endured,  with  no  inducement  of 
countervailing  advantage.  Still  (counting  botli  Bachelora 
and  Masters),  some  sixty  or  seventy  students  take  tlieir 
degree  in  each  year ;  and  among  the  graduates,  we  may 
say,  are  all  students  of  any  eminence  who  have  advanced 
so  far  in  their  course  as  to  have  it  in  their  power  to  go 
up.  The  degree  in  honors  is  very  seldom  souglit,  even 
by  the  most  distinguished,  except  under  the  stimulus  of 
an  occasional  prize.  In  order  to  go  up  ibr  such  a  degree 
with  the  least  hope  of  success,  a  man  must  spend  on  his 
preparations  an  amount  of  laltor  whicli  would  yield  a 
better  i-eturn  if  given  to  chiss-work  or  the  compo,-ition 
of  prize  essays.  College  distinction  in  Scotland,  tiiough 
so  eagerly  sought,  does  not  aid  a  man  in  after-life  as  it 
does  in  England.  Even  in  the  Church  it  goes  ibr  very 
little.  It  may  lead  to  a  good  deal  being  expected  of  a 
young  preacher  at  ids  first  outset :  but  it  is  ins  ])opular- 
ity  with  ordinary  congregations  that  determines  his  suc- 
cess, unless  where  patronage  is  administered  with  a  liigher 
hand  than  it  has  been  of  late  years  in  Scothuul ;  and  very 
great  dunces  indeed  are  often  endowed  by  nature  with 
very  loud  voices,  and  are  quite  competent  to  practise  a 
howling  and  sudorific  oratory,  which  goes  down  amaz- 
ingly with  the  least  intelligent  of  the  Scottish  peasantry. 
A  marked  feature  of  Glasgow  college  life  is  what  ia 
termed  the  Blackslone  Examination.  The  name  is  de- 
rived from  an  antique  chair  of  oak,  with  a  seat  of  black 
marble,  which  is  occupied  by  the  student  under  examina- 


COLLEGE   LIFE  AT   GLASGOW.  201 

don.  This  examination  is  compulsory.  Before  entering 
the  Logic  class,  the  students  are  examined  on  the  Black- 
stone  in  Greek.  Before  entering  the  Moral  Philosophy, 
in  Logic  ;  and  before  entering  the  Natural  Philosophy, 
in  Moral  Philosophy.  This  examination  is  a  mere  form: 
no  one  is  ever  turned  at  it.  It  is  amusing  to  witness  thu 
odd  mixture  of  Latin  and  English  in  which,  on  this  oc- 
casion, communication  is  held  between  the  student  and 
the  professor.  The  latter  is  seated  in  a  large  chair  at 
one  side  of  the  table;  on  the  other  side  stands  the  for- 
midable Blackstone.  A  gieat  crowd  of  students  fills  the 
examination-room;  "Carole  Dickie,"  says  tlie  professor. 
Carolus,  pale  and  trembling,  walks  up  to  the  table.  "  Well, 
Carole,"  says  the  professor,  "  what  do  you  profess  ?"  An- 
swer: "  Doctissirae  Professor,  Evangeliura  secundum  Jo- 
annera  profiteor."  Carolus  then  takes  his  seat  on  the 
Blackstone,  and  construes  a  verse  or  two. 

A  prize  is  given  yearly  to  the  student  who  passes  tiie 
best  examination  on  the  Blackstone,  in  Latin  ;  also  lor 
the  best  in  Greek.  This  prize  is  a  matter  of  very  keen 
competition,  as  success  in  obtaining  it,  coming  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  session,  almost  insures  a  student  of  the 
first  prize  in  tlie  class.  A  very  great  number  of  books  is 
often  "  j)rofessed  "  by  competitors  for  these  prizes.  There 
are  traditions  in  tlie  college  of  students  who  arrived  at 
the  examination-room  with  a  wheelbarrow,  containing 
the  works  on  which  they  were  willing  to  be  examined. 
The  examination  is  viva  voce,  and  lasts  for  several  hours. 
A  number  of  years  since,  three  competitors  went  in  for 
the  Greek  Blackstone  prize:  Tait,  Smith,  and  Ilalh'-y. 
Halley  made  a  most  brilliant  appearance,  and  cairied  off 
the  prize.  lie  studied  for  the  Scotch  Clnirch,  but  died 
before  obtaining  license.     Of  his  competitors,  Smith  weni 


202  COLLEGE   LIFE  AT   GLASGOW. 

to  Carabii(lji;e,  wliere  lie  became  Senior  Wrangler;  Tail 
succeeded  Dr.  Arnold  as  head-master  of  lvugl)y,  and  is 
now  Bishop  of  London.  It  cannot  be  said  that  any 
special  brilliancy  of  talent  recommended  him  to  that 
eminent  place  ;  but  it  is  generally  admitted  that  he  has 
filled  it  with  great  judgment. 

The  character  and  conduct  of  the  students  of  Glasgow 
are  generally  unexceptionable.  There  may  be  a  black 
sheep  now  and  then,  but  such  cases  are  very  rare.  In- 
deed, no  one  without  considerable  moral  stamina  would 
ever  think  of  living  llie  life  of  nine  tenths  of  the  Glas- 
gow students.  And  "their  lot  circumscribes"  the  errors 
and  follies  of  which  they  could  by  i)Ossibility  be  guilty. 
They  have  not  the  money  to  indulge  the  tastes,  whether 
good. or  bad,  of  most  English  University  men.  Wine- 
parties,  riding-horses,  escapades  to  London,  coursing  and 
hunting,  even  rowing  matches,  are  beyond  the  tether  of  a 
man  to  whom  every  penny  is  a  serious  consideration; 
and  who  cannot  but  tliiiik  of  his  poor  sisters  wearing  out 
their  eyes  at  needlework,  and  his  old  father  denying  him- 
self the  long-prized  solace  of  a  little  tobacco,  to  keep  the 
brother  and  the  son  at  college.  He  would  be  a  black- 
hearted villain  who  could  be  vicious  or  even  extravagant, 
when  either  extravagance  or  vice  would  be  sure  to  frus- 
trate their  hopes  and  break  tlieir  hearts.  The  grosser 
vices  are,  we  believe,  unknown.  An  occasional  gaude' 
amiis,  at  which  whisky-toddy  is  the  chief  luxury ;  a  visit 
to  the  theatre,  made  with  fear  and  trembling;  a  row  with 
the  police  once  in  eight  or  ten  years;  constitute  the  ut- 
most dissipation  of  the  mass  of  Glasgow  students.  Mr 
Look  hart's  descrii)tion  of  the  mo,  ale  at  the  University  of 
St.  Andrew's  holds  true  of  Glasgow  as  well : 
I  lived  a  life  almost  solitary,  and  in  general  certainl3'  very  siinpU 


collegf:  life  at  Glasgow.  20S 

ond  innocent.  The  lads  there  were  mostly  poor,  and  had  few  means 
of  signalizing  tlieniselves  by  any  folly.  Our  greatest  diversion  in  the 
way  of  sport  was  a  game  at  golf;  and  we  had  little  notion  of  any  de- 
bauch beyond  a  pan  of  toasted  cheese,  and  a  bottle  or  two  of  the  (!Iol- 
lege  ale,  now  and  then  on  a  Saturday  night. ^ 

The  service  of  the  Scotch  Church  used  to  be  performed 
on  Sundays  during  the  session  in  the  Common  Hall,  but 
hardly  any  one  went  to  it,  and  a  few  years  since  the  ar- 
I'angement  was  allowed  to  drop.  The  students  are  now 
permitted  to  dispone  of  themselves  on  Sunday  as  they 
please. 

We  have  mentioned  that  a  number  of  professors  have 
houses  in  the  College.  One  court  is  tilled  entirely  with 
these  houses,  and  a  few  others  are  jammed  in,  in  unex- 
pected corners  of  the  class-room  courts.  They  are  all 
quaint,  old-fashioned  dwellings,  with  a  strong  snitick  of 
academic  repose  about  them.  The  apartments  are  small, 
and  tlie  ceilings  very  low.  The  very  filthiest  lane  in 
Glasgow  runs  parallel  to  one  side  of  the  quadrangle,  at 
a  distance  of  some  twenty  yards.  During  the  railway 
mania,  a  company  obtained  an  act  to  remove  the  College 
buildings  to  a  pretty  situation  in  the  western  outskirts  of 
the  town,  converting  the  present  College  and  gardens 
into  a  termimis.  Although  the  New  College  was  to  have 
been  a  magnificent  piece  of  Gothic  architecture,  the  geu- 
eral  feeling  was  against  the  abandonment  and  desficra* 
tion  of  the  old  walls.  But  the  resident  professors  and 
their  wives  and  daughters,  long  poisoned  by  the  vila 
odors  of  the  "  Havannah  Vennel,"  were  delighted  at  the 
idea  of  a  transference  to  the  pleasant  slojjes  of  Kelvin 
Grove.  The  railway  company,  however,  went  to  ruin, 
and  the  New  College  scheme  i'ell  to  the  ground. 
A  Malthew  Wald,  p.  57. 


204  COr.LEGE   LIFE  AT   GLASGOW. 

Ghi^tjow  ha?  Ijy  far  the  best  endowed  University  in 
Scot  land.  Tlie  prufi-ssors  form  a  close  corporation,  and 
keep  tlii'ir  atiairs  yiivy  much  to  themselves;  so  it  is  only 
from  common  report  we  can  speak  of  the  value  of  the 
several  chairs.  But  upon  that  authority,  we  believe  that 
the  Chair  of  Greek  is  worth  above  £1,000  a  year  ;  tho>e 
of  Philosophy  from  £800  to  £i)UO.  That  of  Theolc.sy, 
though  the  premier  chair  of  the  University,  does  not 
stand  first  in  point  of  emolument.  It  is  said  to  be  worth 
about  £600  a  year.  The  sums  mentioned  do  not  include 
the  value  of  the  resiliences.  Many  of  the  more  recently- 
founded  chairs  have  cxceediufrly  small  endowments,  and 
their  income  is  derived  mainly  from  the  {{ifo^  paid  by  the 
students.  In  all  the  classes,  the  professors  retain  the 
fees  paid  them :  so  that  a  professor's  income  may  be 
materially  increased  should  his  fame  attract  a  greater 
number  of  disciples.  When  Sir  D.  Sandford  was  Greek 
professor,  he  crowded  his  class-room  not  merely  with 
regular  students,  but  with  Glasgow  clergymen,  lawyers, 
and  merchants,  who  attended  his  eloquent  and  enthusias- 
tic prelections.  And  we  have  heard  it  said  that  in  those 
days  the  revenue  of  the  Greek  chair  was  above  £l,5U0 
a  year. 

Among  other  little  advantages,  the  professors  are  frve 
from  payment  of  the  local  taxes;  they  are  also  supplied 
with  coals  and  gas.  An  abinidant  supply  of  newspapers 
and  periodicals  is  provided  for  themselves  and  their  fami- 
lies. And  the  fine'old  "  Fore  Hall,"  a  hxvge  apartment, 
wainscoted  with  black  oak,  and  by  far  the  most  pictur- 
esque chamber  in  the  University,  is  occupied  by  the  pro- 
fessors as  a  ehib-room.  On  the  whole,  a  Glasgow  pro- 
fessor on  the  old  foundation  leads  a  very  comfortable  life. 

One   or   two   of   the   professors   are    unable   to  induce 


COLLEGE  LIFE   AT   GLASGOW.  205 

any  one  to  attend  tlieir  lectures.  It  may  therefore  be  re- 
garded as  diflficuh  to  ex[)lain  what  purpose  tliese  profes- 
sors serve.  Dr.  xsichol.  the  late  eloquent  Professor  of 
Astronomy,  p;ave  occasionally  short  courses  of  popular 
lectures,  whicli  were  open  to  all  students,  and  which 
were  well  attended.  But  no  class  demanding  labor  and 
tiistained  aliention  will  find  students,  unless  attendance 
upon  it  is  made  compulsory.  We  think  it  would  be  ut- 
terly useless  to  found  new  ciiairs  in  the  Scotch  Universi- 
ties, as  has  lately  been  proposed.  W(;  believe  that  to  do 
so  would  be  the  very  reverse  of  a  reform  or  improve- 
ment. Unless  attendance  upon  them  is  made  an  essen- 
tial part  of  the  curriculum.,  no  one  would  attend  them. 
And  we  believe  that  to  make  attendance  upou  them  com- 
pulsory would,  in  the  case  of  many  a  student  wiio  has 
more  than  enough  to  do  already,  be  the  last  pound  that 
breaks  the  camel's  back.  It  is  in  the  Latin  and  Greek 
classes  that  reform  is  needed.  Kaise  the  standard  of 
scholarship  by  an  examination  at  entering  College  ;  give 
tlie  professors  of  Latin  and  Greek  professor^s  work  to  do, 
not  that  of  hedge  schoolmasters  ;  shorten  to  half,  the  pre- 
posterously extended  course  for  the  Church  ;  let  students 
enter  tiie  University  at  eighteen  or  nineteen  instead  of  at 
twelve  or  tiiirteen  :  they  will  thus  not  be  hurried  through 
the  Pliilosophy  classes  while  mere  children,  —  and  tlie 
Si'otch  Universities  will  have  all  the  reform  they  nn'nL 
But  on  this  subject  we  have  not  time  to  enter. 

The  first  fortnight  of  the  session,  every  alternate  y.'ar 
is  taken  up  with  a  series  of  violent  disturbances  con- 
nected with  the  election  of  the  Lord  Rector.  AVe  be- 
lieve that  at  one  time  this  officer  had  various  duties  to 
perform  ;  but  for  many  years  past  his  sole  function  has 
b'^en  to  give  an  address  to  the  students  in  the  Common 


206        COLLEGE  LIFE  AT  GLASGOW. 

Hall  upon  liis  inauguration.  The  Lord  Rector  is  elrctcd 
hy  llie  professor.^  ami  students.  The  <dection  goes  almost 
invariahlj  u[)on  puliiical  grounds,  and  is  conducted  with 
unparalleled  bitterness  of  party  feeling.  AUhough  the 
professors  always  vote  at  the  election,  they  profess  to 
leave  the  management  of  it  in  the  hands  of  the  students* 
the  leaders  of  whom,  however,  are  virtually  directed  ir 
their  movements  by  the  professors  of  their  own  party. 
All  the  arts  usual  at  other  contested  elections  are  brought 
into  play,  aggravated  by  the  hot-headedness  incidental  to 
the  youth  of  the  parties  engaged.  Public  meetings  are 
held,  and  addresses  and  squibs  of  all  kinds  are  printed 
and  circulated  in  innnense  |>roiiision.  The  most  violent 
attacks  are  made  by  either  i)arty  nj)on  the  leaders  of 
the  other,  and  upon  the  opposing  candidate.  Sometimes 
these  attacks  end  in  physical  violence.  At  a  meeting  in 
one  of  the  class-rooms,  a  few  years  ago,  the  platform  was 
charg(id  by  a  large  force  of  antagoni.-tic  students.  It 
was  gallantly  defended  with  cudgel  and  fist,  and  more 
than  one  of  the  attacking  party  was  felled  like  an  ox. 
The  air  is  darkened  in  the  Hall  on  the  election-day  by 
clouds  of  peas,  of  which  missiles  the  professors  get  even 
more  than  their  sliare.  Tiiese  dignitaries  always  behave 
with  great  good-humor  upon  the  occasion  ;  and  the  satur' 
nalia  once  over,  disci])rme  is  restored,  and  all  parties  re- 
turn quietly  to  work. 

Among  the  Lord  Rectors  of  the  last  thirty  years,  are, 
Lord  Jeffrey,  Sir  James  Mackinto-h,  Lord  Bi-ouffham, 
Thomas  Campbell  (who  was  elected  in  opposition  to  Sir 
Walter  Scott),  the  ^larquis  of  Lansdowne,  the  Earl  of 
Derby,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  Sir  .James  Graliam,  Earl  Rus- 
sell, Lord  Macaulay,  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  and  Sir  E. 
Bulwer  Lytton.     The  inaugural  addresses  since  Jeffrey's 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT   GLASGOW.  207 

time  have  been  published  in  a  large  volume.  Edmund 
liurke  was  rector  in  1783  ;  he  fairly  broke  down  in  his 
address,  and  stopped  in  the  middle  of  it.  Brougham's 
address  is  regarded  as  llie  most  eloquent  ;  Macaulay's 
was  a  very  fine  one.  We  remember  that  great  man,  in 
a  large  yellow  waistcoat,  getting  on  in  a  slow  sing-song 
through  his  address,  and  drinking  a  little  water  at  ilia 
close  of  each  short  paragraph.  The  Rector  wears  at  liis 
inauguration  a  very  ancient  and  shabby  gown,  decorated 
with  faded  gold  lace.  It  is  never  forgot  in  Glasgow 
College,  that  Sir  Robert  Peel  said,  on  assuming  it,  that 
he  felt  greater  pride  in  putting  on  that  gown,  than  in 
putting  on  the  robes  of  Prime  Minister. 

This  chapter  has  run  to  such  a  length  that  we  must 
forego  our  intention  of  saying  something  altout  the  con- 
flicts with  the  police,  few  and  far  between,  yet  very  des- 
perate when  they  occur ;  of  the  occasional  breaciies  of 
discipline  ;  of  traditions  of  the  odd  professors  of  the  last 
generation  ;  of  publications  written  by  the  students,  most 
of  which  are  remarkably  poor ;  of  the  extraordinai-y 
scenes  which  are  sometimes  presented  at  the  breakfast- 
parties  given  by  the  professors  in  tiie  course  of  the  ses- 
sion. Kvery  Saturday  morning  in  the  months  of  jNIarch 
and  April,  each  ])rofessor  has  fifteen  or  twenty  of  his 
class  at  breakfast,  till  he  has  got  through  his  roll.  It 
would  require  another  pen  than  ours  to  depict  the  sIkcji- 
ithness  and  timidity  of  some  poor  fellows  on  entering 
The  Presence,  their  gradually  growing  confidence,  and 
the  jaunty  and  jocular  free-and-easiness  which  they  oc- 
casionally attain  before  tiie  close  of  tlie  entertainment. 

We  have  thus  endeavored  to  atford  our  readers  some 


208  COLLEGE  LIFE  AT   GLASGOW. 

Idea  of  liow  tliin[r:^  fro  on  in  the  Tjniversify  of"  Gla«jrow  : 
an  instilulion  wliicli  semis  f'oi'tli  from  its  pbiin  and  even 
tumble-down  class-rooms,  "a  mif»;lity  population  of  men, 
wlio  have  a  kind  and  measure  of  education  which  fits 
lliem  for  taking  a  keen  and  active  management  in  the 
affairs  of  ordinary  life  ;  "  and  whose  long  course  of  study 
many  a  one  has  entered  on  a  raw  boy,  and  emerged 
from  comparatively  a  thoughtful  man.  We  can  but  very 
rarely  trace  the  after  career  of  Glasgow  .students,  as  we 
ol'ten  may  trace  that  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  men,  in 
the  history  of  the  senate  and  the  country.  A  seat  on  the 
Scotch  Bench  is  about  the  highest  thing  that  a  Glasgow 
man  can  look  to,  and  by  far  the  most  eminent  among  the 
students  of  Glasgow  pass  into  the  simple  life  of  a  Scotch 
])ari-h  minister.  It  is  quite  remarkable  to  wiiat  a  degree 
the  Church  absorbs  the  highest  talent  of  the  University. 
And  it  is  a  significant  fact,  that  only  two  Glasgow  .stu- 
dents —  Campbell  and  Jeffrey  —  have  ever  risen  to  the 
dignity  of  Lord   Rector. 

Yet  theie  are  few  Glasgow  students  who  do  not 
cherish  a  fond  recollection  of  their  College  life,  even 
though  it  may  have  been  a  hard  one  at  the  time.  P^or 
ourselves,  as  we  look  back,  not  .-o  many  years,  that  time 
rises  again  before  us.  We  call  to  mind  tlie  dark  nioi-n- 
ings  on  which  we  hurried  to  College,  only  half  awake ; 
liii;  midnight  lioui's  of  solitary  study,  when  we  heard 
the  clock  strike  two,  three,  four,  five,  through  the  silent 
house;  the  time  when  we  wearily  rose  to  oin*  day's  work, 
and  saw  the  moon  hardly  moved  from  that  place  in  the 
sky  which  it  held  when  we  lay  down  to  oui-  poor  hour  of 
rest.  We  call  to  mind  the  half-dozen  chairs  littered  with 
Old  books,  fislied  out  from  the  dustif^-t  corners  of  the  col- 
lege library  ;  the  pages  of  paper  daily  covered,  with  a 


COLLEGE  LIFE  AT   GLASGOW.  209 

pleasant  sense,  unknown  to  other  work,  that  here  was 
Bomething  tangible  accomplished  ;  the  indescribable  feel- 
ing of  weariness  growing  day  by  day  ;  the  pen  which, 
towards  the  end  of  the  session,  we  could  sometimes 
scarcely  hold  in  the  trembling  hand,  till  we  had  got 
warmed  with  half  an  hour's  work  ;  the  "  constitutional 
walk"  for  an  hour  before  dinner;  the  delightful  Saturday 
evening  allowed  to  relaxation  ;  the  carrying  in  the  prize 
essays  ;  the  list  made  out  of  all  the  prizes  we  were  com- 
peting for,  how  many  we  shall  not  say  ;  the  thankfulness 
rather  than  pride  with  which,  during  the  last  fortnight 
of  the  session,  we  marked  off  each  in  succession  as  won  ; 
the  throbbing  anxiety  of  the  tirst  of  May,  which  was  to 
decide  the  University  essay  prizes  ;  and  how  musical  the 
Principal's  voice  as  he  read  out  the  mottoes  we  knew  so 
well ;  then  the  delightful  relief  of  total  leisure  in  those 
briglit  days  of  May  ;  the  summer-time  spent  in  research 
and  labor  against  another  session  ;  the  intense  veneration 
for  work  which  a  man  comes  to  have  when  he  knows 
what  it  means.  Nothing  to  others,  all  these  things  are 
deeply  interesting  to  one's  own  self;  and  perhaps  they 
may  touch  some  chords  of  recollection  in  some  of  our  old 
college  companions,  now  scattered  over  every  quarter  of 
the  earth.  We  believe  that  for  real  hard  work,  for  real 
mental  discipline,  for  training  to  habits  of  industry  jind 
self-denial,  for  fitting  average  men  to  fill  respectably  an 
average  place  in  society,  there  are  very  few  things  bet- 
ter than  College  Life  at  Glasgow, 


14 


CHAPTER  Vlir. 
CONCERNING  THE   WORLD'S   OPINION: 

WITH    SOME    XnOUGnXS    ox    COWED    PKOPLE. 


^vJ^T  seems  to  me  that  there  are  few  tilings  in 
'"^"'^''l  wliich  it  is  more  difTK-ult  to  hold  the  just 
|t>^B<^S^^i  mean,  than  our  feeling  as  to  the  opinion  of 
w^^iJi^ii^:?  those  around  us.  For  tlie  most  part,  you 
will  find  human  beings  taking  a  quite  extreme  position 
as  to  what  may  he  called  tlie  World's  Opinion.  They 
pay  either  too  much  regard  to  it,  or  too  little.  Either 
they  are  thoroughly  cowed  hy  it,  or  they  stand  towards 
it  in  an  attitude  of  defiance.  The  cowed  people,  unques- 
tionably, are  in  the  majority.  Most  people  live  in  a 
vague  atmosphere  of  dread  of  the  world,  and  of  what 
the  world  is  saying  of  them.  You  may  discern  the 
belief  which  prevails  with  the  steady-going  mass  of 
humankind,  in  the  typical  though  not  historicjil  fact 
wliich  was  taught  most  of  us  in  childhood,  —  that  Don't 
Cake  came  to  a  bad  end.  Tiie  actual  idea  which  is  pres- 
ent to  very  many  minds  is  diiricnlt  to  define.  Even  to 
attempt  to  define  it  takes  away  that  vagueness  which  is 
of  the  essence  of  its  nature,  and  wliich  is  a  great  reason 
of  the  fear  it  excites.  And  the  actual  idea  varies  much 
in  difierent  minds,  and  in  the  same  mind  at  different 
times.     Sometimes,  if  put   into  shape,  it  would  amount 


CONCERNING  THE   WORLD'S   OPINION.  211 

to  this :  —  that  some  great  and  uncounted  number  of 
human  beings  is  watching  the  person,  is  thinking  of  him, 
is  forming  an  estimate  of  him,  and  an  opinion  as  to  what 
he  ought  to  do.  Sometimes  the  world's  opinion  becomes 
a  more  tangible  thing  :  it  means  the  opinion  of  the  little 
circle  of  the  person's  acquaintance;  or  the  opinion  of  the 
family  in  which  he  or  she  lives  ;  or  the  opinion  of  even 
some  single  individual  of  a  somewhat  strong,  and  prob- 
ably somewhat  coarse  and  meddlesome  nature.  In  such 
a  case  the  world  becomes  personified  in  the  typical  Mrs. 
Grundy  ;  and  the  fear  of  the  world's  opinion  is  expressed 
in  the  well-known  question — What  will  Mrs.  Grundy  say? 
Most  people,  then,  live  in  a  vague  fear  of  that  which 
may  be  styled  Mrs.  Grundy  :  and  are  cowed  into  abject 
submission  not  merely  to  her  ascertained  opinions,  but 
also  to  what  they  fancy  that  possibly  her  opinions  may 
be.  Others,  again  • —  a  smaller  number,  and  a  number 
lessening  as  the  individuals  who  constitute  it  grow  older 
—  confront  JNIrs.  Giuudy,  and  defy  her.  Don't  Care 
was  a  leader  of  this  little  band.  But  even  though  Don't 
Care  had  not  come  to  trouble,  it  is  highly  probable  that 
as  he  advanced  in  years  he  would  have  found  that  he 
must  care,  and  that  he  did  care.  For  a  gooil  many 
years  I  have  enjoyed  the  acquaintance  and  the  conver- 
sation of  a  man  who,  even  after  he  became  Solicitor- 
General,  held  bravely  yet  temperately  by  the  forlorn 
hope  of  which  a  large  part  has  always  consisted  of  the 
young  an<l  the  wrongheaded  ;  and  fVom  which,  with  ad- 
vancing years  and  increasing  experience,  men  are  so  apt 
to  drop  away.  I  know  that  it  was  not  vaporing  in  him 
to  say,  "  The  hissing  of  collected  Europe,  provided  I 
knew  the  hissers  could  not  touch  me,  would  be  a  grate- 
ful sound    rather  tlmn   the  reverse  —  that   is,   if   heard 


212  CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION. 

at  a  reasonable  distatipc."  ^  But  though  I  beliovc  the 
words  were  sincere  when  he  said  them,  yet  I  am  con- 
vinced it  was  only  by  the  stiffening  of  a  moral  nature, 
implying  effort  too  great  to  last,  that  he  was  able  to  keep 
the  feeling  which  these  words  express.  I  see  in  these 
words  the  expression  of"  a  desperate  reaction  against  a 
strong  natural  bias  ;  and  I  believe  that  time  would  grad- 
ually crumble  that  resolute  purpose  down.  By  a  deter- 
mined effort  you  may  hold  out  a  heavy  weight  at  arm's 
length  for  a  few  minutes ;  you  may  defy  and  vanquish 
the  law  of  gravitation  for  that  short  space  ;  but  the  law  of 
gravitation,  quietly  and  unvaryingly  acting,  will  beat  you 
at  last.  And  even  if  EUesmere  could  peacefully  go  about 
his  duty,  and  tranquilly  enjoy  his  home,  with  that  uni- 
versal hiss  in  his  ears,  I  know  of  those  into  whose  hearts 
that  hiss  would  sink  down,  —  whose  hearts  that  hiss  would 
break.  How  about  his  wife  and  children  ?  And  how 
would  the  strong  man  himself  feel,  when  day  by  day  he 
saw  by  the  pale  cheek,  the  lined  brow,  the  anxious  eye, 
the  uiuiatural  submissiveness,  that  tliey  were  living  in  a 
moral  atmosphere  that  was  f)oisoning  them  ?  Think  of 
the  little  children  coming  in  and  saying  that  the  other 
child i-en  would  not  play  with  them  or  speak  to  them. 
Think  of  the  poor  wife  going  to  some  meeting  of  char- 
itable ladies,  and  left  in  a  corner  without  one  to  notice 
her  or  take  pity  on  her.  Ah,  my  friend  EUesmere,' 
once  you  have  given  hostages  to  fortune,  we  know  where 
the  world  can  make  you  feel ! 

Let  us  give  a  little  time  to  clearing  up  our  minds  on 
this  great  practical  question,  as  to  the  influence  which 
of  right  belongs  to  the  world's  opinion  ;  as  to  the  defer- 
ence which  a  wise  man  will  accord  to  it.  Let  us  try  to 
define  that  great  shadowy  phantom  which  holds  numbers 

1  Ellepmere.  in   Gnnprintons  of  my  Snliii.ili-.. 


CONCERNING  THE   WORLD'S   OPINION.  213 

through  all  their  life  in  a  slavery  which  extends  to  all 
they  say  and  do  ;  to  the  food  they  eat,  and  the  raiment 
they  put  on,  and  the  home  they  dwell  in  ;  and  in  many 
cases  even  to  what  they  tliink,  and  to  what  they  will 
admit  to  themselves  that  they  think.  The  tyranny  of 
the  world's  oi)inion  is  a  tyranny  infinitely  more  subtle 
«nd  farther-reaching  than  that  of  the  Inquisition  in  its 
worst  days  ;  one  which  passes  its  sentences,  though  no 
one  knows  who  are  the  judges  that  pronounce  them  ; 
and  one  which  inflicts  its  puiushments  by  the  hands  of 
numbers  who  utterly  disapprove  them.  And  yet,  one 
has  not  the  comfort  of  feeling  able  to  condemn  this 
strange  tribunal  out  and  out ;  you  are  obliged  to  con- 
fess that  in  the  main  its  judgments  are  just,  and  its 
supervision  is  a  wholesome  one.  Now  and  then  it  does 
things  that  are  flagrantly  unjust  and  absurd  ;  but  if  I 
could  venture,  with  my  experience  of  life,  to  lay  down 
any  general  princi[)le,  it  would  be  the  principle,  abhorent 
to  warm  young  hearts  and  to  hasty  young  heads,  that  in 
the  main  the  world's  opinion  is  right  in  those  matters  to 
which  the  world's  opinion  has  a  right  to  extend.  I  dare 
say  you  will  think  that  this  is  a  general  principle  pro- 
mulgated with  considerable  reservation.  So  it  is  ;  and  I 
hardly  know  to  which  thing,  the  principle  or  the  reserva- 
tion, it  seems  to  me  that  the  greater  consideration  is  due. 
It  is  wrong,  doubtless,  to  be  always  thinking  what  peo- 
ple will  say.  It  is  a  low  and  wretched  state  of  mind  to 
come  to.  There  is  no  more  contemptible  or  miserable 
mortal  than  one  of  whom  this  can  be  said  :  — • 

While  you,  you  think 
What  others  think,  or  wliat  yon  think  they'll  say; 
Shapinj^  your  course  hy  somelhinjj  si-arce  more  tangible 
Than  dreams,  at  best  tiie  shadows  ou  the  stream 
Of  aspen  trees  by  flickeriivg  breezes  swayed  — 


214  CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S   OPINION. 

Load  me  with  irons,  drive  me  from  morn  till  night, 
I  am  not  the  utter  shive  which  that  man  is 
Whose  sole  thouj^ht,  word,  and  deed  are  built  on  what 
The  world  may  say  of  him  ! 

The  condition  of  mind  described  in  these  indignant 
lines  is  doubtless  wrong  and  wretci)ed.  But  still  one 
feels  that  these  lines  must  be  understood  with  much 
qualification  and  restriction.  Neither  in  moral  prin- 
ciple, nor  in  common  sense  or  taste,  can  one  go  with 
those  who  run  to  the  other  extreme.  It  is  as  well  for 
most  people  to  be  cowed  Ijy  a  rule  which  in  the  main 
will  keep  them  right,  as  to  be  suffered  to  run  wild  with 
no  rule  at  all.  The  road  to  insanity  is  even  more  short 
and  direct  to  the  man  who  resolves  that  he  shall  do 
noliiing  like  anybody  else,  than  to  the  poor  subdued 
creature  in  whom  the  fear  of  the  world's  judgment  has 
run  to  that  morbid  excess  tliat  she  fancies  that  as  she 
goes  along  the  street  every  one  is  pointing  at  her. 
There  was  nothing  fine  in  Shelley's  wearing  a  round 
blue  jacket  after  he  was  a  married  man,  just  because 
men  in  general  do  not  wear  boys'  jackets.  And  his 
writing  Atheist  after  his  name  in  the  tourists'  book,  to 
shock  people,  does  not  strike  me  for  its  profanity  half 
so  much  as  for  its  idiotic  silliness  and  its  contemptible 
littleness.  I  do  not  admire  the  woman  who  walks  about, 
a  limp  and  conspicuous  figure,  in  the  days  when  crinoline 
is  universally  accepted.  The  extreme  of  crinoline  is  silly; 
the  utter  absence  of  it  is  silly  ;  the  wise  and  safe  course 
is  the  middle  one.  I  do  not  think  it  wise  or  admirable 
for  a  lady  to  walk  a  quarter  of  a  mile  bareheaded  along  a 
crowded  street  to  a  friend's  hou<e,  even  though  thus  she 
may  save  the  trouble  of  going  up-stairs  for  her  bonnet.  I 
do  not  approve  the  young  fellow  who  tells  you,  when  you 


CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  215 

speak  to  him  about  some  petty  flying  in  the  face  of  the 
conventional  notion  of  propriety,  that  he  will  do  exactly 
what  he  likes,  and  that  he  does  not  care  a  straw  what 
any  one  n)ay  think  or  say.  That  }oung  fellow  is  in  a 
very  unsafe,  and  a  very  unstable  position.  It  is  not  likely 
that  he  will  long  remain. at  his  present  moral  stand-point. 
It  is  extremely  probable  that  afler  a  few  signal  instances 
of  mischief  brought  upon  himself  by  that  defiant  spirit, 
he  will  be  cowed  into  abject  submission  to  what  people 
may  think,  and  become  afraid  almost  to  move  or  breathe 
for  fear  of  what  may  be  said  by  folk  whose  opinion  be 
secretly  despises.  He  will  gain  a  reputation  for  want  of 
common  sense,  which  it  will  be  very  dithcult  to  get  rid  of. 
And  even  the  humblest  return  to  his  allegiance  to  Mrs. 
Grundy  may  fail  to  conciliate  that  individual's  favor,  lost 
by  many  foi-mer  insults. 

There  are  some  persons  who  are  bound,  not  merely  in 
prudence,  but  in  principle,  to  consider  the  world's  opinion 
a  good  deal.  They  are  bound,  not  merely  to  avoid  evil, 
but  to  avoid  even  the  appearance  of  evil.  And  this  be- 
cause their  usefulness  in  this  world  may  be  very  preju- 
dicially affected  by  the  unfavorable  opinion  of  those 
around  them.  It  is  especially  so  with  the  clergy.  A 
clergyman's  usefulness  depends  very  much  on  the  es- 
timation in  which  he  is  held  by  his  parishioners.  It  ia 
desirable  that  his  parishioners  should  like  him :  it  is 
quite  essential  that  they  should  resjjcct  him.  It  is  not 
wise  in  the  parson  to  shock  the  i)rejudices  of  those 
around  him.  It  will  be  his  duty  sometimes  to  yield  to 
opinions  which  he  thinks  groundless.  However  fond  a 
clergyman  of  the  Anglican  Church  may  be  of  a  choral 
service,  it  will  be  extremely  ibolish  and  wrongheaded  iu 
him  to  endeavor  to  thrust  such  a  service  upon  a  congre- 


216  CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION. 

gation  of  people  wlio  in  their  ignorance  think  it  Popish. 
And  it  will  not  be  prudent  in  a  clergyman  of  the  Scotch 
Church,  placed  in  a  remote  countiy  parish  where  the 
population  retains  a  good  deal  of  the  old  covenanting 
leaven,  to  fill  his  church  windows  with  stained  glass,  or 
even  to  put  a  cross  above  the  eastern  gable.  And  such 
u  man  will  also  discern  that  it  is  his  duty  to  practise  a 
certain  economy  and  reticence  in  the  explaining  of  his 
views  as  to  instrumental  music  in  church,  and  liturgical 
services.  If  it  be  the  fact  that  many  rustics  in  tiie  par- 
ish regard  these  things  as  marks  of  the  Beast,  he  need 
not  obtrude  the  fact  that  he  holds  a  different  opinion. 
For  he  would  then,  in  some  quarters,  bring  all  his  teach- 
ing into  suspicion.  Let  Mr.  Snarling  take  notice,  that 
I  am  counselling  no  reserve  in  the  grave  matters  of  doc- 
trine :  no  reserve,  that  is,  in  the  sense  of  making  your 
people  fancy  that  you  believe  what  you  do  not  believe, 
or  that  you  do  not  believe  what  you  do.  The  only 
economy  in  doctrine  which  I  should  approve  would  be 
that  of  bringing  out  and  applying  the  truth  which  seems 
most  needful  at  the  time,  and  best  fitted  for  its  exigen- 
cies. But  as  to  other  tilings,  both  in  statement  and  in 
conduct,  I  hold  by  a  high  authority  which  states  that 
many  things  may  be  lawful  for  the  parson  which  are 
not  expedient.  And  I  believe  that  in  little  things  the 
world's  judgment  is  riglit  in  the  main.  There  is  a  grav- 
itation of  society  towards  common  sense:  at  least  to  ap- 
proving it,  if  not  to  acting  upon  it.  I  am  not  going  to 
defend  hats  and  the  like  ;  or  to  stand  up  for  our  angular 
Western  dress  against  the  flowing  garments  of  the  East, 
though  I  believe  our  dress  is  more  convenient  if  it  be 
less  graceful.  And  I  do  not  believe  there  is  any  per- 
verse bent  of  society  to  what  is  ugly  and   inconvenient 


CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  217 

at  least  in  male  attire :  if  any  hatter  or  tailor  produced 
a  better  covering,  which  would  be  as  cheap,  it   would 
doubtless  find    acceptance.     But  I   hold    that   it    is   not 
wise  for  any  ordinary  man  to  take  issue  with  his  race 
on  any  point  of  dress.     He  will  not  be   the  wisest   of 
judges  who   sliall  first  lay  aside   the   venerable  wig   of 
gray  horsehair.     It  is  not  expedient  that  a  young  cler- 
gyman sliould  fly  in  the  face  of  his  parishioners  on  such 
.1  question  as  the  wearing  of  a  shooting-coat  or  a  black 
neck-tie,  or  as  going  out  with  the  hounds.     It  was  not 
wise  in  Jolni  Foster,  the  great  Bapti>t  preacher,  to  hor- 
rify his  simple  flock  by  appearing  in  his  pulpit  in  a  graj 
coat  and  a  red  waistcoat.     No  doubt,  in  logic,  his  posi- 
tion was  unassailable.     For  people  who  reject  all  cleri- 
Ci\\  robes  as  Poi)ish,  it  is  manifestly  absurd   to  make  a 
stand  for  a  black  coat  and  a  white  neckcloth.      By  mak- 
ing a  stand  for  these,  you  cut  the  ground  from  under 
your  feet:  you  admit  the  principle  which  justifies  satin 
and  lawn.      Let  me  say,  a  sound  and   reasonable  princi- 
ple too.     It  is  not  fitting  tiiat  in  every-day  attire  a  man 
should  conduct  the  worship  of  God's  house.      Hut  even 
with   folk    who    thought    diflerently,  John    Foster   acted 
unwisely.     As  lawyers  would  say,  it  was  a  bad  issue  to 
take.     I  know  how  a  certain  eminent  essayist,  whom  I 
much    revere,  stands  up  for  eccentricity.     He   holds   it 
to  be  a  useful  protest    against  our   tendency  to  a   dead 
conformity.     I  venture  to  say  that,  generally,  it  is   not 
wise    to  be   eccentric.     You  find    that   eccentric    people 
are  usually  eccentric  in  little  things,  not  worth  fighting 
aV)OUt.     We   all  know  that  there   are  great  and   impor- 
tant   things  in   which    the    world   thinks    wrongly :    take 
issue  there  with  the  world,  if  you  like  :  but  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  do  so  in  small  matters  of  dress  and  behavior. 


218  CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION. 

It  is  not  worth  while  to  talie  a  beard  into  the  pulpit  where 
it  will  intcifere  with  the  congregation's  attention  to  the 
sermon  ;  nor  to  appear  in  the  same  place  in  lavender 
gloves  in  a  counti-y  where  lavender  gloves,  in  such  a 
locality,  are  unknown.  It  is  wise  to  give  in  to  the  little 
requirements  on  which  the  world's  opinion  has  been 
plainly  expressed.  If  you  are  resolved  to  take  a  part 
of  opposition  to  all  the  world,  do  so  in  the  behalf  of 
things  which  are  worth  the  trouble  of  the  strife.  Let 
it  not  be  engraven  on  your  tombstone,  Here  lies  the 
man  who  confronted  tlie  iiuman  race  on  the  question  of 
the  wide-awake  hat.  Stand  up  for  truth  and  right,  if 
you  are  fond  of  fighting :  you  will  have  many  opportu- 
nities in  this  life.  Smite  the  flunkey,  pierce  the  hum- 
bug, violently  kick  the  aristocratic  liar  and  seducer,  and 
probably  you  will  find  abundant  occui)ation.  But  though 
you  know  it  is  a  pleasant  and  enjoyable  thing  for  your- 
self and  your  children  to  sit  on  the  steps  of  your  coun- 
try-house in  the  sunshine  after  breakfast,  you  will  not 
gain  the  approval  of  wise  men  by  doing  the  like  on  the 
steps  of  your  town-house  in  a  much-frequented  street: 
say,  for  example,  in  Princes-street  in  Edinbui-gh.  And 
though  you  often  roll  on  the  grass  with  your  little  boy 
in  the  counti-y,  do  not  atlt;m[)t  the  like  on  the  pavement 
of  such  a  public  way.  For  in  that  case  it  is  conceivable 
that  you  may  be  jeered  at  by  the  passers-by,  and  appre- 
hended by  the  police.  And  while  you  are  being  con- 
veyed to  the  station-house,  instead  of  being  esteemed  as 
a  philosopher  and  revered  as  a  martyr,  it  is  not  impossi- 
ble that  you  may  be  laughed  at  as  a  fool.  "  We  sat  on 
the  bridge,  and  swung  our  legs  over  the  water:"  with 
these  words  an  eloquent  writer  lately  began  an  essay. 
Of  course,  the  bridge  was  in  a  quiet  rural  s])ot.      If  the 


CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  219 

writer  and  his  friend  had  done  the  like  on  London 
bridge,  the  small  boys  would  have  hallooed  at  them, 
and  the  constable  would  have  moved  them  on.  Yet 
the  merits  of  the  deed  are  the  same  in  either  case.  On!} 
in  the  one  case  the  world  says  You  may  ;  in  the  other 
case  it  says  You  must  not.  And  the  human  being  who 
resists  the  world's  judgment  in  these  little  matters,  shows, 
not  strength,  but  weakness.  Where  principle  is  involved, 
it  is  noble  to  swing  your  legs;  but  not  otherwise.  But 
doubtless  you  have  remarked  that  it  is  a  common  thing 
to  find  great  obstinacy  in  petty  concerns  in  a  man  who 
has  no  real  firmness.  You  will  find  people  who  are 
squeezable  and  facile  in  the  great  affairs  of  life,  and  in 
their  larger  opinions  have  not  a  mind  of  their  own,  but 
adopt  the  opinion  of  the  last  person  they  heard  expi-ess 
one  ;  yet  who  persistently  stick  to  some  little  absurd  or 
bad  habit  which  they  have  often  been  entreated  to  leave 
off",  which  annoys  their  friends,  and  makes  them  ridicu- 
lous. You  will  find  a  man  whom  you  might  turn  round 
with  a  straw  in  his  belief  on  any  question  political, 
moral,  or  literary,  but  who,  having  taken  up  the  ground 
that  once  one  is  three,  would  go  to  the  stake  rather  than 
give  in  to  the  world's  way  of  thinking  on  that  ])oint. 

I  beg  the  reader  to  observe,  that  I  do  not  counsel  a 
general  conformity  to  the  api)ointments  of  his  particular 
world,  merely  on  the  ground  that  non-conformity  ma} 
cause  him  to  be  derided,  or  disliked,  or  suspected.  7 
wish  him  to  think  of  the  injury  which  his  non-conform- 
ity may  occasion  to  others.  If  your  shooting-coat,  my 
clerical  brother,  however  light  and  easy  to  walk  in  on 
a  hot  summer  day,  is  to  stand  between  a  poor  dying 
girl  and  the  comfort  and  profit  she  might  get  from  your 
counsels  and  prayers,  why,  I  think,  if  you  are  the  man 


220  CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION. 

I  mean,  tliat  you  will  determine  never  to  go  beyond  your 
own  gate  but  in  the  discomfort  (often  very  great  in  coun- 
try parishes)  of  severely  clerical  attire.  Possibly  few 
of  my  readers  know  that  in  various  rural  districts  of 
Scotland  a  sermon,  however  admiral)le,  will  do  no  good 
if  the  preacher  reads  it:  he  must  either  give  it  extem- 
pore, or  appear  to  do  so  by  having  previously  written 
it  and  committed  it  to  memory.  "  I  canna  thole  the 
paper,"  I  have  heard  an  intelligent  farmer  say.  He 
meant,  he  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  the  manuscript 
discourse.  It  is  fair  to  add  that  this  prejudice  is  fast 
dying  out,  even  in  rural  ])arishes  ;  while  in  large  towns 
in  Scotland,  it  lias  entirely  disappeared.  But  however 
unreasonable  and  stupid  may  have  been  the  prejudice 
which  condemned  overwrought  ministers  to  several  hours 
weekly  of  the  irksome  school-hoy  labor  of  getting  their 
sermons  by  heart,  ami  however  painful  the  anxiety  which 
a  man  with  an  uncertain  memory  must  often  have  felt  on 
a  Siuiday  morning,  in  the  fear  that  he  might  forget  what 
he  had  painf'uUv  prepared,  and  be  reduced  to  a  state  of 
utter  blankness,  and  ignomiuiously  stick  in  his  sermon  ; 
still,  you  will  think  that  a  conscientious  man,  earnest  to 
do  good,  would  make  this  painful  sacrifice,  not  to  his 
pojjularity,  but  to  his  usefulness.  Let  me  confess,  for 
myself,  that  I  cannot  imagine  how  the  elder  clergy  of 
the  Scotch  Church  were  al)le  to  accomplish  this  awful 
tfjil.  The  father  of  the  present  writer,  for  thirty  years, 
wrote  and  comrnilted  to  memory  two  sermons  of  forty 
minutes  each,  (;very  week  ;  and  hundreds  of  his  brethren 
did  the  same.  I  could  not  do  it,  to  save  my  life.  Surely 
the  intellectual  fibre  of  the  new  generation  is  less  mus- 
cular than  that  of  their  fathers.  I  have  made  mention 
of  a  judicious  economy  in  giving  instruction.     You  may 


CONCERNING   THE  WOKLD'S   OPINION.  221 

discern  the  result  of  the  want  of  it  in  what  we  are  told 
about  a  {)Oor  dying  hiborer,  in  one  of  the  midland  coun- 
ties of  England.  It  is  quite  unquestionable  that  the 
world  goes  round  the  sun  ;  but  it  is  not  in  the  weakness 
of  the  parting  hours  of  life  that  a  poor  uneducated  man 
should  be  called  to  reconstruct  the  theoi'y  of  the  universe 
under  which  he  had  lived  all  his  days.  And  though  it 
was  certainly  needful  to  explain  to  the  dying  man  the 
meaning  of  Christian  faith,  it  might  have  been  done 
Avithout  going  into  anything  like  metaphysics  ;  and  in  a 
way  in  which  a  child  of  six  years  old  might  understand 
it,  possibly  as  well  as  the  parson  himself.  But  a  young 
parson  could  not  see  this.  He  would  correct  all  the  in- 
tellectual errors  of  his  humble  parishioner.  He  would 
pour  upon  him  a  flood  of  knowledge.  Possibly  you  may 
smile  at  the  odd  expressions  ;  but  I  remember  few  sen- 
tences which  have  so  touched  me  with  their  hopeless 
pathos,  as  that  with  whit'h  the  dying  man  feebly  turned 
to  the  wall,  and  spoke  no  more.  "  Wut  wi'  facth,"  he 
said,  "and  wut  wi' the  earth  goin'  lound  the  sun,  and 
wut  wi'  the  railways  all  a-whuz/,in'  and  a-buzzin',  I'm 
clean  muddled,  confoozled,  and  bet !  "  Well,  let  us 
hope  that  light  came  at  the  evening-time  upon  that 
blind,  benighted  way. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind,  that  as  to  any  particulai 
subject,  there  is  sometime-;  great  difficulty  in  ascertaiiiino 
what  the  world  (by  which  I  mean  our  own  particular 
world)  is  actually  saying.  It  seems  to  me  es|)eciMlly  dllli- 
cult  to  know,  in  a  small  community,  what  is  the  general 
opinion  upon  almost  any  matter.  For  you  may  fall  in 
with  people  holding  quite  exceptional  opinions.  And  ex- 
ceptional opinions  are  often  very  strongly  held  ;  and  litld 


222  CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S  OPINION. 

by  very  clover  men.  I  remember  hearing  a  really  able 
man  (one  whom  tlie  jrreat  world  has  recognized  as  such) 
declare  tliat  in  his  judgment  a  certain  clergyman,  not  re- 
markable for  talfiil,  earnestness,  oddity,  or  anything  but 
self-conceit,  was  the  greate>t  preacher  he  had  ever  listened 
to  ;  incompai'ably  greater  than  A,  B,  C,  or  D,  each  of 
whom  is  well  known  to  fame.  The  man  who  expressed 
this  opinion  was  one  you  would  have  been  obliged  to 
admit  as  most  competent  to  form  an  opinion  ;  yet  some- 
how, for  some  inexplicable  reason,  some  sympathy  or  an- 
tipathy beyond  the  reach  of  reasoning,  he  had  come 
firmly  to  hold  an  opinion  wiiicli  was  entirely  exceptional, 
which  was  shared  by  no  otiier  liiiman  being.  And  thus 
the  world  may  be  saying  one  thing  at  one  tea-table,  and 
just  the  opposite  at  another  tea-table,  in  some  little  coun- 
try town.  At  one  tea-table,  the  sermon  of  last  Sunday 
may  be  very  good  ;  at  the  other  it  may  be  very  bad.  The 
like  difference  of  opinion  may  exist  as  to  the  efficiency  of 
the  member  of  parliament.  At  one  table,  he  may  be  a 
worlliy,  Imnl-workiiig  man  ;  at  the  other,  a  poor  silly 
creature.  So  with  tiie  singing  of  Miss  X.  If  yon  are 
enjoying  the  cup  that  does  not  particularly  cheer  with 
Mrs.  Smilli  and  lier  set  of  friends,  yon  may  be  informed, 
as  a  stranger  to  ihe  town,  that  a  great  treat  awaits  von  in 
listening  to  Miss  X's  songs.  Her  voice  is  splendid,  and 
admirably  cultivated  ;  her  taste  exquisite.  She  is  gener- 
ally regarded  as  singing  better  than  .Jenny  Lind.  You 
naturally  go  away  with  the  belief  tliat  in  the  opinion  of 
the  world  at  Driimsleekie,  Miss  X  is  a  very  great  singer. 
But  all  this  is  due  to  tlie  accident  of  your  takins  tea  with 
Mrs.  Smith.  Had  it  been  Mrs.  Jones,  you  would  have 
been  told  that  Miss  X  overstrained  her  voice ;  that  she 
sang  untrulv  ;  that  she  sang  flat ;  that  she  sang  harshly; 


CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  223 

that  her  affectation  in  singing  was  such  that  it  was  hard  to 
refrain  from  tlirowing  sometiiing  at  her  head  ;  and  finally, 
that  slie  could  not  sing  at  all.  All  this  is  perplexing. 
It  would  be  a  comfort  to  get  over  the  prelinainary  diffi- 
culty, and  to  find  out  what  it  is  that  the  world  actually 
does  say.  Its  voice,  however,  conveys  an  uncertain  sound. 
And  it  would  cost  more  time  and  trouble  than  the  result 
would  be  worth,  to  add  up  the  tea-tables  on  one  side, 
and  the  tea-tables  on  the  other  side,  and  then  discover  on 
which  side  is  the  preponderant  weiglit.  And  in  case  it 
should  be  found  that  the  tea-tables  on  either  side  exactly 
balanced  each  other,  the  diiheulty  would  arise,  that  it 
would  appear  that  in  Drumsleekie,  on  the  subject  of 
Miss  X's  singing,  the  world  had  no  opinion  at  all.  The 
favorable  and  unfavorable  would  just  neutralize  one 
another.  And  as  with  the  singing  of  Miss  X,  so  will  you 
find  it  with  the  beauty  of  Miss  Y,  and  the  manners  of 
Miss  Z.  Likewise  with  the  horses  of  Mr.  Q,  and  the  po- 
ems of  Mr.  R.  In  short,  to  sum  the  matter  up,  it  depends 
entirely  on  the  set  into  which  you  get  in  a  small  community, 
what  impression  you  are  to  carry  away  as  to  the  general 
opinion  upon  any  question.  For  though  one  slice  taken 
from  a  leg  of  mutton  will  give  you  a  fair  idea  of  the  gen- 
eral flavor  of  all  the  joint ;  yet  you  may  (so  to  speak)  cut 
a  slice  out  of  the  talk  of  the  town  wliich  shall  be  entirely 
different  from  all  the  rest.  You  may  have  chanced  en 
liie  faction  which  cries  up  the  new  town-liall,  or  on  the 
(action  which  cries  it  down.  You  may  have  chanced  on 
the  party  which  tliinks  the  parson  the  greatest  of  men,  or 
on  the  party  which  esteems  him  as  one  of  the  least. 

Then  it  is  certain  that  iNIrs.  Grundy  may  be  made  to 
appear  to  say  almost  anything,  by  the  skilful  management 
and  the  energy  of  two  or  three  pushing  individuals.     It 


224  COXCEKNING  THE  WORLD'S  OPINION. 

is  possil)le  for  a  very  small  number  of  persons  to  get  up 
a  souf/h  (to  u-e  the  Seotcli  phrase)  either  for  or  against 
a  man.  A  few  clacking  busybodies,  running  about  from 
house  to  house,  may  disseminate  a  vague  unfavorable  im- 
pression. A  few  hearty,  active,  energetic  friends  may 
cause  tiie  world's  opinion,  in  a  little  place,  to  seem  lo  be 
?etting  very  strongly  in  a  man's  favor.  You  have  proba- 
bly heard  the  legend,  which  very  likely  is  fabulous,  of  the 
fashion  in  which  the  blacking  of  a  certain  eminent  man 
rose  into  universal  fame.  The  eminent  man  hired  four 
footmen,  of  loud  and  fluent  i)Ower  of  expression,  and  of 
brazen  countenance.  He  arrayed  them  in  gorgeous  liv- 
eries;  the  livery  of  each  being  quite  different  from  that 
of  the  oilier  tiiree.  Then,  each  alone,  fioin  morning  to 
evening  they  pervaded  London  ;  and  this  was  what  they 
did.  When  eacii  footman  saw  a  siiop  in  which  blacking 
appeared  likely  to  be  sold,  he  rushed  into  it  with  great 
appearance  of  excitement,  and  exclaimed  in  a  hurried 
manner,  "  Give  me  some  of  Snooks's  blacking  instantly." 
Snooks,  it  should  be  mentioned,  was  the  name  of  his 
eminent  employer.  "  Snooks's  blacking,"  said  the  man 
in  the  shop ;  "  we  never  heard  of  it ! "  "  Not  heard  of 
Snooks's  blacking!"  exclaimed  the  footman;  "  why,  my 
master  won't  let  me  brush  his  boots  with  any  other  ;  and 
just  now  he  is  roaring  at  me  for  brushing  his  boots  this 
morning  witii  that  of  Stiggins  ;  I  must  be  off  elsewhere 
and  get  Snooks's  blacking  forthwith."  This  interview 
naturally  startled  the  man  in  the  shop;  he  began  to  think, 
"  I  must  get  some  of  Snooks's  blacking  ;  everybody  must 
be  using  Snooks's  blacking  !  "  And  when,  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  the  other  three  footmen  severally  visited 
his  shop  as  the  first  had  done  ;  one  exclaiming,  "  the 
Chancellor  wont  use  anything  but  Snooks's   blacking ; " 


CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  225 

miother  "  his  Grace  wont  use  anything  but  Snooks's 
bhicking  ;"  the  last  (in  crimson  livery),  "  his  Majesty  wont 
use  anything  but  Snooks's  blacking  ;  "  the  man  in  the  shop 
took  his  resolution.  He  found  out  the  factory  of  Snooks, 
and  ordered  a  large  quantity  of  his  blacking. 

That  wliich  has  pushed  blacking  into  fame,  has  dtne 
the  like  for  other  things.  Two  or  three  individuals,  vig- 
orously puffing  a  book,  may  cause  it  to  seem  that  the 
world's  judgment  in  the  locality  where  they  live  is  in  that 
book's  favor.  And  most  people  will  bow  to  that  judg- 
ment. Not  very  many  people  Iiave  so  mucli  firmness,  or 
confidence  in  themselves,  as  to  hold  tlieir  own  opinion  in 
the  presence  of  the  strongly  expressed  opinion  of  the 
world  on  the  other  side.  And  a  loud  and  confident  declar- 
iilion  that  something  is  very  bad,  will  silenc^e  and  put  down 
many  people,  wlio  in  their  secret  soul  think  it  very  good. 

Tiie  songh,  or  general  opinion  and  belief  in  a  country 
district,  may  occasionally  be  got  up  by  persons  who  are 
little  better  than  idiots.  Let  me  relate  a  story  which  I 
lieard,  long  ago.  A  very  distinguislied  preacher  once 
went  to  preach  in  the  parish  church  of  a  certain  bi" 
and  ugly  village  in  Scotland.  The  village  lies  among 
the  hills,  in  a  pastoral  district.  It  had  no  railway  com- 
munication ;  no  near  neighbors  ;  no  large  town  within 
many  miles.  The  jjcople,  many  of  them,  were  very  ig- 
norant, very  pragmatical  and  self-conceited.  The  big 
and  ugly  village  thought  it  was  the  centre  of  the  world  ; 
possibly,  that  it  was  the  whole  world.  Its  po])iilation 
formed  an  unflnorable  estimate  of  the  preaching  of  ilie 
great  orator.  It  was  generally  said  in  the  village  that 
"  his  sermons  were  no'  very  weel  conneckit."  It  happens 
that  the  discourses  of  that  clergyman  arc  rcmarkaldc  for 
their  logical  liukedness  of  thought ;  for  the  synnnetry  and 
15 


226  CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION. 

beauly  of  their  skeleton,  no  less  than  for  the  brilliance 
and  range  of  their  illustrations.  But  some  blockliead 
said  (not  having  anything  particular  to  say)  tiiat  they 
were  "  no'  very  weel  conneckit."  Other  blockheads 
grasped  at  this.  It  was  something  to  say  ;  and  to  say 
it  seemed  to  imply  the  possession  of  some  critical  acu- 
men. So  tlie  voice  of  Mrs.  Grundy,  in  that  village, 
reechoed  tiiat  statement  on  every  side.  Tiie  statement 
was,  indeed,  al)surd.  You  might  as  well  have  said  tiiat 
the  sermons  were  distinguished  by  their  ignorant  im- 
patience of  the  relaxation  of  taxation,  or  by  their  want 
of  mezzotinto.  But  people  seized  it,  and  repeated  it. 
I  remember  going  as  a  boy  to  that  locality  ;  and  hear- 
ing several  persons,  all  densely  stupid,  and  most  of 
them  very  conceited,  speak  of  tlie  great  preacher.  Tiiey 
all  criticiz(;d  him  in  the  selfsame  terms  :  "  His  sermons 
were  no'  very  weel  conneckit !  "  But  there  is  no  opin- 
ion expressed  witii  so  great  confidence  as  the  opinion 
of  the  man  who  is  incapable  of  forming  any  opinion. 
I  remember  an  old  gentleman  telling  me  how  he  went 
to  hear  Dr.  Chalmers.  "  I  coidd  not  understand  the 
man,"  said  he  ;  "  I  could  not  see  wiiat  he  was  driving 
at."  I  am  entirely  satisfied  that  the  old  gentleman  told 
the  truth.  Like  the  Squire  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
Dr.  Chalmers  could  supply  argument,  but  he  could  not 
supply  intellect  to  comprehend  it. 

An  unfavorable  sough  may  be  got  up  in  a  rural  district, 
by  a  man  who  combines  caution  with  malignity  ;  and  all 
in  such  a  way  that  you  cannot  lay  hold  of  the  malicious 
but  cautious  man.  Let  us  suppose  a  new  doctor  is  com- 
ing to  the  village.  You,  the  old  doctor,  may  go  about  the 
village  and  beg  the  peo[)le  to  try  and  receive  him  civilly ; 
he  may  not  be  such   a  bad  man   after  all.     The  trutb 


CONCLRNIXG  THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  227 

probably  is,  that  nobody  supposes  him  a  bad  man,  or 
intends  to  receive  him  otherwise  than  civilly;  but  a  few 
days  judiciously  spent  may  excite  a  prejudice  which  it 
will  take  some  time  to  allay.  Some  one  speaks  to  you  in 
praise  of  an  acquaintance.  You  may  reply,  in  a  hesitat- 
ing way,  "  Yes  ;  he  is  rather  a  nice  fellow  ;    but  

well,  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  bad  of  any  one."  In 
this  way  you  have  not  committed  yourself;  but  you  have 
conveyed  a  worse  impression  than  you  could  probably 
have  conveyed  by  any  definite  charge  you  could  have 
made  against  the  man.  Honest  and  manly  folk,  indeed, 
may  possibly  call  you  a  sneak.  AVhat  do  you  care  ? 
Some  muscular  Christian  may  kick  you.  In  that  case 
you  will  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  tiiat  it  unquestiona- 
bly serves  you  right. 

There  is  something  worrying  and  vexatious,  in  think- 
ing that  tiie  souyJi  of  the  count ri/-side,  which  in  Scotland 
signifies  the  genera!  opinion  ot'  the  neighborhood,  is  run- 
ning against  yourself  and  your  possessions  ;  even  though 
you  heartily  despi<e  the  individuals  whose  separate  judg- 
ments go  to  make  up  that  sough.  For  you  gradually 
come  to  attach  considerable  im[)ortance  to  the  o[)inion  of 
the  people  among  whom  you  live,  even  tliough  that  opin- 
ion be  in  itself  worth  nothing.  There  is  compensation, 
however,  in  the  fact,  that  if  the  unfavorable  opinions  of 
stupid  and  incompetent  people  are  able  to  depress  a  man, 
the  favorable  oi)inions  of  stupid  and  incompetent  people 
are  able  to  elate  and  encourage  even  a  very  clever  and 
wise  man.  INIany  suili  men  are  kept  up  to  the  mark  at 
which  they  do  good  and  even  great  things,  by  rumors  of 
the  high  estimation  in  which  they  are  held  by  Mrs. 
Grundy.     There  is  probably  as  mucli   lKi;)[ii!H's-  conimu- 


228  CONCEHNIXG   THE   WORLD'S   OPINION. 

nicated  to  a  human  Itciiig  by  tlie  favorable  estimate  of 
those  around  liim  — tliough  they  are  people  of  no  great 
standing,  and  not  very  wise  —  as  if  they  were  the  wisest 
and  noblest  of  the  land.  Foi-,  by  degrees,  even  the  wise 
inau  begins  to  fancy  that  these  people  who  think  so  liighly 
of  liim  are  not  quite  ordinary  folk  ;  tliey  are  more  capa- 
ble judges  of  luiman  excellence  than  people  in  tlieLr 
station  in  life  usually  are.  1  can  (piite  understand  that 
the  author  wiio  linds  his  book  praised  in  the  Little  Ped- 
dlington  Gazette,  ov  tlie  Wliistkhinkie  Jiunncr  of  Freedom, 
will  conclude  that  these  ai'c  important  newspapers,  con- 
ducted with  intelligence  much  surpassing  that  of  country 
papers  in  geneial.  He  will  be  quite  cheerful  for  a  whole 
forenoon  after  reading  in  either  of  those  journals,  that  he 
is  one  of  the  most  original  thinkers  of  the  age.  So  a 
clergyman,  who  is  popular  in  his  own  parish,  will  quite 
honestly  come  to  think  that  its  population  is  remarkable 
for  its  inteUigence  and  its  power  of  appreciating  a  good 
sermon.  Of  course,  as  has  been  said,  the  converse  case 
holds  good.  The  ill  opinion  of  those  around  you,  if  quite 
universal,  is  dejjressing,  however  much  you  may  despise 
that  opinion.  Not  only  is  tliat  uiitavorable  estimate 
always  around  you,  like  an  unhealthy  atmosphere,  but 
you  gradually  couil'  to  think  that  the  people  who  hold  it 
are  rather  wise  and  important  people.  A  parson,  going 
from  a  large  and  intelligent  parish  to  one  where  the  peo- 
ple are  few  and  uncultivated,  knows  at  first  \^iry  nearly 
what  is  the  mark  of  his  present  position  and  his  present 
congregation.  lie  knows  that,  seriously,  the  opinion 
which  his  parishioners  form  of  him  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  But  he  learns  very  soon  that  comfort  and  discom- 
fort may  be  caused  by  judgments  which  are  absolutely 
valu<^less.     You   may  remember  wiiat    Philip  Van    Arte- 


CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  229 

velde  says  of  that  wliicli  may  be  regarded  as  the  most 
Cavorable  of  all  individual  estimates  of  man  :  — 

How  little  flattering  is  a  woman's  love!  — 
Worth  to  the  heart,  come  how  it  may,  a  world ; 
Worth  to  men's  measures  of  their  own  deserts, 
If  weighed  in  wisdom's  balance,  merely  nothing! 

And  gradually  you  go  farther  than  Van  Artevelde. 
Probably  even  that  philosophic  man,  as  he  found  day  by 
day  new  indications  of  the  warm  affection  and  the  hearty 
admiration  of  the  woman  he  had  in  his  mind  when  he 
said  such  words,  began  to  think  that,  after  all,  there  must 
be  something  unusual  about  him  to  elicit  all  that  devo- 
tion ;  began  to  think  that  her  opinion  was  sound  and  just ; 
and  that  she  must  be  a  person  of  no  ordinary  sagacity 
who  arrived  at  a  judgment  so  true.  You  will  do  all  that. 
You  will  not  oidy  be  pleased  by  the  favorable  estimate  of 
incompetent  judges :  you  will  come  to  think  that  they  are 
very  competent  judges.  A  clergyman  who  at  one  time 
used  to  preach  to  a  great  crowd  of  cultivated  folk  in 
London,  told  me  that  after  he  had  been  a  few  months  in 
a  little  country-parish,  he  felt  quite  pleased  when  he 
found  tlie  mill-girls  of  a  manufacturing  town  four  miles 
off,  walking  over  on  Sundays  to  hear  him  preach  ;  and 
also  that  he  begun  to  think  these  mill-girls  very  intelli- 
gent people,  whose  appreciation  was  worth  having.  Your 
•'nature  is  subdued  to  wliat  it  works  in."  You  stand  in 
considerable  awe  of  things  amid  which  you  always  live. 
And  the  truth  is,  that  almost  everything,  when  you  come 
(o  know  it  well,  is  bigger  than  the  stranger  fancies  it. 
It  is  because  tilings,  when  you  come  to  know  them,  are 
really  so  good,  that  the  lues  BoswelUana  prevails  to  such 
a  degree  in  biographers  ;  that  each  parson  thinks  his  own 
church  in  some  one  respect  supeiior  to  the  general  run ; 


230  CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S   OPIXION. 

and  that  the  rustics  of  r-ach  parish  think  their  o.rii  the 
finest  in  the  counlrj.  The  things  are  really  very  good  ; 
and  it  is  difficult  to  estimate  how  good,  relatively  to  oth- 
ers. When  a  wise  man  finds  himself  second,  or  ninth,  or 
nineteenth,  in  competition  with  others,  whether  the  compe- 
tition be  in  the  size  of  his  turnips,  the  speed  of  his  horses, 
the  beauty  of  his  pictures,  the  bitterness  of  his  reviews 
the  amiability  of  his  children,  or  f'>e  badness  of  his  JKjad- 
aches  (all  matters  of  which  people  are  given  to  boast), 
the  wise  man  will  not  necessarily  conclude  that  he  him- 
self or  his  belongings  are  less  good  or  great  than  he  had 
previously  bestowed.  The  right  conclusion  is  tliis :  that 
other  men  and  llieir  belongings  are  better  or  bigger  than 
he  had  fancied  tlicm.  And  though  the  favorable  appre- 
ciation of  judges,  barristers,  cabinet  ministers,  and  the 
like,  is  undoubtedly  wortli  more  tiian  tliat  of  factory-girls, 
Still  tiie  favorable  appreciation  of  tlie  factory-girls  may 
be  regarded  as  worth  a  good  deal,  by  one  who  lives  ex- 
clusively among  factoiy-girl-. 

Besides  this,  there  is  a  furtlier  consideration  that  comes 
in  to  give  weight  to  the  unfavorable  judgment  of  Mrs. 
Grundy.  A  wise  man,  knowing  how  human  vanity  leads 
people  to  over-estimate  their  own  merits,  would,  if  he 
found  that  everybody  thought  he  was  a  fool,  begin  to  fear 
that  he  was  one  ;  and  also  to  fear  that  the  fact  that  he 
could  not  see  he  was  a  fool  showed  the  liopelessness  of 
his  condition  ;  as  we  know  that  a  maniac  occasionally 
believes  tliat  he  is  the  only  sane  person  in  the  world.  I 
believe  that  there  is  nothing  that  can  hold  a  man  up 
against  the  depres.-ing  efTect  of  being  held  in  little  esteem 
by  those  around  him,  as  his  family,  or  his  neighbors  ;  but 
the  fact  of  his  being  held  in  good  estimation  by  some  per- 
60a  or  persons  elsewhere,  whom  he  can  regard  as  wiser 


CONCERNING   THE    WORLD'S   OPINiON.  2.31 

and  worllilei  judges  of  him  than  those  around  him  are. 
I  have  known  a  great  pi'eacher,  whose  church  was  nearly 
empty  on  Sundays.  It  was  in  a  remote  rural  district. 
But  whenever  he  went  to  preach  in  any  large  town,  the 
church  in  which  he  preached  was  crowded  to  excess. 
So  he  could  set  the  opinion  of  the  remote  Mrs.  Grundy 
against  that  of  the  near  Airs.  Grundy,  and,  tliough  sur- 
rounded by  the  unfavorable  estimation  of  the  near  Mr?, 
Grundy,  he  could  retain  composure  and  confidence  in 
himself,  by  backing  up  his  estimate  of  himself  with  that 
of  the  distant  world.  And  there  are  people  with  no  dis- 
tant friends  to  lean  on,  who  yet,  in  a  remote  situation, 
find  the  support  and  sympathy  they  want,  in  the  better 
part  of  our  periodical  literatui-e.  The  Times,  coming 
daily  to  an  educated  man  in  a  very  rustic  place,  is  a 
great  blessing.  So  is  the  Saturday  Review  to  the  coun- 
try parson.  So  are  the  Quarterly  Reviews  generally. 
He  will  find  much  in  them  with  which  he  cannot  agree  ; 
a  good  deal  which  is  extremely  distasteful  to  him.  But 
in  reading  them,  he  breathes  a  different  atmosphere  from 
that  in  which  he  is  placed  by  many  of  his  daily  concerns 
and  acquaintances.  He  finds  in  them  something  to  pre- 
vent him  from  being  cowed  into  conformity.  He  finds 
the  thoughts  of  cultivated  men,  holding  the  same  canons 
of  taste  with  himself;  and,  in  the  main,  holding  nearly 
the  same  great  points  of  belief  on  more  important  things, 
I  felt  it  as  a  comfort,  after  lately  hearing  a  man  say  that 
n  certain  noble  cathedral  was  "  a  great  ugly  jail  of  a 
])lace,"  to  read  a  brilliant  article  in  praise  of  Gothic 
architecture.  And  when  you  are  building  a  pretty 
Elizabethan  house,  with  all  its  graceful  characteristics, 
you  do  not  mind  a  bit  that  Mrs.  Grundy,  ^Ir.  Snarliiig, 
and  Mi*s  Limejuice  go  about  saying  that  it  is  gimcrack, 


232  CONCERNING  THE  AVORI-D'S   OPINION. 


or 


barbarous,  Popish,  inconvenient,  dark,  and  fit  oidy  i 
monks  and  nuns,  when  you  are  able  to  turn  to  many 
pages  on  which  competent  men  have  set  out  the  beauties 
and  comforts  of  that  dcliglitful  style,  and  shown  up  tiie  non- 
sense of  the  stu])id  and  tasteless  lulk  who  abuse  it.  But  if 
you  stood  alone  in  the  world  in  your  lovi^  for  the  well-sliown 
gable  and  the  pointed  arch,  it  may  be  feared  that,  unless 
you  had  the  determination  of  the  martyr,  you  would  be 
badgered  into  keeping  your  opinions  to  yourself,  and  into 
conforming  your  practice  to  that  of  other  people.  There 
are  few  more  delightful  things  to  any  one  who  has  long 
lived  among  those  with  wiiom  he  feels  no  syinpath}',  than 
to  find  himself  among  people  who  think  and  feel  as  he 
does.  And  there  is  more  than  pleasure  in  the  case ; 
there  is  something  in  this  tliat  will  strengthen  and  vivify 
bis  tastes  and  beliefs  into  redoubled  energy. 

You  will  not  unfrequently  find  people  who  loudly  pro- 
fess their  contempt  for  the  world's  opinion,  who  are  really 
living  in  abject  terror  of  it.  A  coward,  you  know,  often 
assumes  a  bullying  manner.  And  there  is  no  weaker  or 
sillier  way  of  considering  Mrs.  Grundy,  than  to  be  ever 
on  the  watch  for  opportunities  of  shocking  her.  It  is  for 
the  most  part  nervous  people,  very  much  afraid  of  her, 
who  di)  this.  We  ail  know  persons  who  take  great  de- 
light in  trying  to  astonish  mankind  by  the  awful  opinions 
they  express,  and  by  conduct  flatly  opposed  to  the  rules 
of  civilized  society.  You  will  find  parsons  who  in  their 
sermons  like  to  frighten  people,  by  sailing  as  near  un- 
sound doctrine  as  possible  ;  or  by  a  manner  very  devoid 
of  that  gravity  which  becomes  the  time  and  place.  So 
with  young  ladies  who  smoke  cigars,  or  talk  in  a  fast 
manner  to  gentlemen  on  subjects  and   about   people  of 


CONCERNING  THE   WORLDS   OPINION.  233 

wliich  tliey  ousiht  to  know  iiotliiiig.  So  with  the  greater 
part  of  all  eccentricity.  One  can  bear  eccentricity,  how- 
ever great,  when  it  is  genuine.  One  can  bear  the  man, 
however  oddly  he  may  act,  who  acts  in  Mrs.  Grundy's 
pi'esence  as  tliough  he  saw  her  not;  and  who  bond Jide 
does  not  see  her.  But  it  is  a  very  wretched  and  con- 
temptible thing,  to  witness  a  man  doing  very  bold  things, 
going  through  all  kinds  of  eccentric  gyrations,  with  a 
side-glance  all  the  while  at  Mrs.  Grundy,  and  with  an  ear 
upon  the  stretch  to  remark  what  she  is  going  to  say. 

There  are  men  who  are  right  in  carefully  observing 
the  world's  opinion  of  them  and  their  doings  :  whose 
duty  it  is  to  observe  these  things  carefully.  There  are 
men  who  know  for  certain  that  the  woild  has  an  o|)inion  of 
them  :  an  opinion  varying  from  day  to  day  ;  and  an  opin- 
ion upon  whose  variations  very  tangible  results  depend. 
Such  a  man  is  the  Prime  Minister  in  Britain.  His  pos- 
session of  actual  power  and  of  profitable  place  depends  just 
upon  the  world's  opinion  of  him  ;  an  opinion  which  ebbs 
and  flows  from  week  to  week  :  which  is  indicated  unmistak- 
ably by  his  parliamentary  majority  as  it  rises  and  sinks  ; 
and  which  is  affected  by  a  host  of  circumstances  quite 
away  from  the  Premier's  merits.  If  the  Premier  is  de- 
sirous to  retain  his  place,  I  should  fancy  that,  till  he  gets 
indurated  to  it,  it  must  be  a  most  disagreenble  one.  From 
what  a  variety  of  quarters  the  voice  cf  Mrs.  Grundy 
must  be  borne  to  his  ears ;  and  how  diffioult  it  must  be 
to  know  precisely  what  importance  to  attach  to  this  or  that 
specific  bellow  !  Judging  from  the  easy  way  in  which  the 
present  head  of  the  government  bears  his  functions,  one 
would  suppose  that  to  be  Prime  Minister  must  be  like 
being  stoker  of  an  American  high-pressure  steamer.     At 


234  CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION. 

first,  you  will  he  in  momently  expectation  of  being  blown 
up  ;  but  by  and  by  you  will  come  to  take  it  quite  coolly  ; 
indeed,  witli  a  hardihood  rather  appalling  to  most  people 
to  see.  There  is  no  one  who  has  it  in  his  power  to  know 
po  certainly  and  immediately  what  his  own  world  thinks 
of  him,  as  a  great  actor.  It  is  an  index  of  his  popular- 
ity, as  certain  as  the  mercury  in  the  thermometer  is  of 
tlie  temperature,  how  the  theatre  fills  at  which  he  per- 
forms. And  to  him,  popularity  is  more  than  empty 
praise.  It  is  substantial  pudding.  The  bread  and  but- 
ter of  his  wife  and  children  depend  upon  it.  There  are 
cases  in  which  it  is  a  miserable  spectacle  to  see  a  man 
eagerly  anxious  about  the  world's  opinion.  There  is  no 
more  contem[)tihle  and  degrading  sight,  than  a  clergyman 
who  sets  his  heart  upon  popularity  as  a  preacher;  who 
is  always  fishing  for  compliments,  and  using  claptrap 
arts  *o  draw  a  crowd  and  amaze  people.  You  come  to 
hear  of  preachers  who,  it  is  plain,  are  prepared  to  go 
any  length  :  men  who  would  preach  standing  on  their 
head  rather  than  fail  of  creating  a  sensation.  I  thank 
God  I  never  listened  to  such  ;  but  I  have  read  in  print 
addresses  described  as  having  been  given  in  buildings 
professedly  used  for  the  worship  of  the  Almighty,  which 
addresses,  in  their  title,  subject,  and  entire  tone,  were 
perfectly  analogous  to  the  advertisements  and  exhibitions 
of  a  jugirler.  Their  vulcar  biiflToonery  and  disgusting 
profanity  were  intended  as  a  l)ait  to  the  lowest  and  worst 
classes  in  the  community.  You  may  have  known  persons, 
in  various  walks  of  life,  who  were  in  the  possession  of 
the  world's  good  opinion,  but  who  could  not  be  said  to  be 
in  the  enjoyment  of  it.  It  did  not  make  them  happy  to 
have  it,  but  it  would  have  made  them  miserable  to  lose 
it.     To  go  down  a  peg  or  two  in  the  scale  of  fame  would 


CONCERNINO   THK   ANOJILD'S   OPINION.  235 

have  been  uiiciulurable.  And  you  would  find  them  occii' 
sionally  putting  out  feelers,  to  try  whether  the  popular 
gale  was  slackening.  Should  it  show  signs  of  slackening, 
you  have  various  acquaintances  who  will  be  careful  to 
inform  you.  I  knew  a  young  divine  who  preached  for 
almost  the  first  time  at  a  certain  country  church.  A  few 
days  after,  a  man  from  the  parish,  a  vulgar  person,  and 
almost  a  stranger,  came  and  assured  him  that  his  sermon 
did  not  by  any  means  guv  sahtisfawkshun.  1  have  known 
a  person,  u  stupid  and  ignorant  blockhead,  who  devoted 
himself  to  going  about  and  retailing  to  every  one  he 
knew,  any  wretched  little  piece  of  tattle  which  might  be 
disagreeable  to  hear.  I  don't  believ'e  the  man  was  malig- 
nant. I  suppose  he  yielded  to  an  impulse  analogous  to 
that  which  makes  a  hen  cackle  when  it  has  laid  an  egg. 
Unhappily,  some  men  are  so  weak  that  though  they  find 
it  unpleasant  to  be  informed  that  the  world  is  pronounc- 
ing opinion  against  them,  they  yet  find  a  certain  fascina- 
tion impelling  them  to  learn  all  particulars  as  to  this 
unfriendly  opinion.  And  so  the  ignoi-ant  blockiiead  found 
many  attentive  auditors.  Doubtless  this  gratified  him. 
My  readers,  cut  such  a  man  short  at  once.  Snub  him. 
Shut  him  up.  As  you  would  close  the  window  through 
which  a  bitter  north-east  wind  is  blowing  into  your  cham- 
ber on  a  winter  day,  so  shut  up  this  wretched  gutter  that 
conveys  to  you  the  dregs  of  Mrs.  Grundy! 

As  you  go  on  through  life,  m}-  friend,  you  will  discover 
a  good  many  Cowed  People,  Tiiese  peo])le  have  been 
fairly  beaten  by  their  fear  of  what  the  world  will  say. 
They  are  always  in  a  vague  alarm.  They  are  afi'aid  of 
doing  or  saying  the  most  innocent  thing,  lest  in  some 
way,  they  cannot  saj'  how.  it  may  turn  to  their  {)rejudice. 


23G  CONCERXrXG   THE   WORLD'S    OPINION. 

They  are  in  mortal  dread  of  committing  them -elves. 
They  live  in  some  general  confu-^ed  apprehension  of 
what  may  come  next.  They  are  always  thinking  that 
Mr.  A  bowed  rather  stiffly  to  them,  and  wondering  what 
it  can  mean  ;  that  Mrs.  B  looked  the  other  way  as  they 
passed,  and  no  doubt  intends  to  finally  cut  their  acquaint- 
ance ;  and  the  like.  All  tliis  shades  off  into  develop^ 
raents  which  pass  the  limit  of  sanity  ;  as  believing  that 
llie  entire  population  of  the  place  have  combined  against 
them,  and  that  the  human  race  at  large  is  resolved  to 
thwart  their  |)lans  and  crush  tlieir  hopes.  I  do  not  men- 
tion these  things  to  be  laughed  at.  The  sincerest  sj-mpa- 
thy  is  due  to  such  as  suffer  in  this  way.  No  doubt  all 
this  founds  upon  a  nervous,  anxious  n;itui'e  ;  but  it  has 
been  greatly  fostered  by  lending  a  ready  ear  to  such 
stupid,  if  not  malicious,  tatlers  as  have  just  been  men- 
tioned. There  is,  indeed,  much  of  natural  temperament 
here ;  much  of  physical  constitution.  There  are  boys 
who  go  to  school  each  morning,  trembling  with  vague 
apprehension,  they  cannot  say  of  what.  Possibly  there 
is  some  idea  that  all  their  comjianions  may  league  against 
them.  There  is  not  much  of  the  magnanimous  about 
boys  ;  and  such  a  poor  little  fellow  probiibly  leads  a  sad 
enough  school  life.  And  years  afterwards,  when  he  is  a 
man  in  business,  you  may  find  him  going  away  from  his 
cottage  on  the  outskirts  into  town  each  morning,  to  get 
his  letters  and  attend  to  the  day's  transactions,  as  Daniel 
might  have  gone  into  the  den.  To  many  lumian  beings 
the  world  is  as  a  great,  fierce  machine,  whirring  and 
grinding  inexorably  on  ;  and  their  great  desire  is  to  keep 
away  from  it.  And  possibly  the  man  who  is  most  thor- 
oughly cowed  by  the  world  is  not  the  man  who  lives  in 
an  even  and  equable  awe  of  it ;  but  rather  he  who  now 


COXCEKNIXG   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  237 

and  then  rebels,  makes  a  frantic,  foolish  fight  for  freedom, 
gets  terribly  mauled  in  a  quarrel  with  the  world  on  some 
stupid  issue,  and  then  gives  up,  and  sinks  down  beaten 
into  a  state  of  utter  prostration.  Probably  such  a  man, 
for  a  while  after  each  desperate  rally,  is  the  most  cowed 
of  cowed  men. 

There   are    human    beings  of   this   temperament   who 
seem  to  feel  as  though  any  street  in  which  an  acquaint- 
ance lives  were  barricaded  against  their  passage.     They 
will  tell  you  they  don't  like  to  pass  Mr.  Smith's  house, 
lest  he  should  see  them.     You  listen  with  wonder,  and 
possibly  you  reply:  "  Suppose  he  does,  what  then  ?"     Of 
course  they  cannot  answer  your  question  ;  they  cannot 
fix  on  any  specific  evil  result  which  would  follow  if  Mr. 
Smith  did  happen  to  see  them  ;  they  have  simply  a  vague 
fear  of  the  consequences  of  that  event.     You  will  find 
such  people,  if  they  are  walking  along  the  street,  and  see 
any  one  they  know  coming  in   their  direction,  instantly 
get  out  of  the  way  by  turning  down  some  side  lane.     I 
believe  that  in  the  hunting-field  the  cry  of  "  Ware  wheat/  " 
warns  the   horseman   to  keej)  off  the  ground  sown  with 
that  precious  grain,  lest  the  crop  suffer  damage.     I  think 
I  have  seen  human  beings,  the  voice  of  whose  whole  na- 
ture, as  they  advanced  tlu-ough  creation,  appeared  to  be 
^^  Ware  Friends!''    Their  wish  was  just  to  keep  out  of 
anybody's  way.     It  was  vain    to  ask  what   harm   would 
Ibllow  even  if  they  met  Mr.  Green  or  the  Miss   Browns. 
They  did  not  know  exactly  why  they  were  afraid :  they 
were  vaguely  cowed.     Is  it  because  the  present  wr'er 
feels    within    himself  something  which    might   ultimately 
land   him    in   that    wretched    condition    of  moral   prostra- 
tion, that  he  is  anxious  to  describe  it  accurately  and  pro- 
test against  it  bitterly?     You  find   [leople  so  thoroughly 


238  CONCERNING   THE   WORLD'S   OPINION. 

cowed,  that  they  appear  to  be  always  apologizing  foi 
venturing  to  be  in  this  world.  They  seem  virtually  to 
say  to  every  one  they  meet,  but  especially  to  all  baro- 
nets, lords,  and  the  like,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  being 
here."  You  will  find  them  saying  this  even  to  wealthy 
mercantile  men.  Not  only  is  this  a  painful  and  degrad- 
ing point  to  arrive  at ;  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  it  is 
a  morally  wrong  one.  It  implies  a  forgetfulness  of  Who 
put  you  in  this  world,  my  friend,  that  you  should  wish  to 
skulk  through  it  in  that  fashion.  Is  not  this  the  right 
thing  for  a  human  being  to  feel.  The  Creator  put  me 
here,  in  my  lowly  place  indeed ;  but  I  have  as  good  a 
right  in  this  world,  in  my  own  place  in  it,  as  the  Queen 
or  the  President.  My  title  to  be  here  is  exactly  the  same 
as  that  of  the  greatest  and  nolilest :  it  is  tlie  will  of  my 
Maker.  And  I  shall  follow  the  advice  of  a  good  and 
resolute  man  in  an  early  century,  who  was  always  ready 
to  give  honor  to  whom  it  was  due,  but  who  would  not 
abnegate  his  rights  as  man,  for  mortal.  I  intend  to  do 
what  he  said  should  be  done  by  "  every  man,"  —  I  in- 
tend, "  wherein  I  am  called,  therein  to  abide  with  God." 

There  are  few  more  contemptible  exhibitions  of  human 
slavery  than  you  may  find  in  cowed  people  who,  in  every 
little  thing  tiicy  do,  are  guided  not  by  their  notion  of 
what  is  riglit,  but  by  their  belief  as  to  what  Mrs.  Grundy 
may  say,  more  especially  tlie  Grundy  whose  income  and 
social  standing  soniewiiat  surpass  their  own.  I  once 
heard  a  parson,  who  had  a  large  income,  say  that  he 
could  not  venture  to  put  his  man-servant  into  livery,  be- 
cause the  gentry  in  his  parish  would  not  like  it !  I  sug- 
gested that  it  was  no  concern  of  the  gentry  how  he  might 
attire  his  servant;  that  the  rpiestions  to  be  considered 
concerned  only  himself,  and  appeared  to  me  to  be  these:  — 


CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  239 

1.  Whether  he  could  afford  it : 
'2.  Whether  he  would  like  it. 
And  that  for  myself,  if  I  could  answer  these  questions  in 
the  affirmative,  I  should  like  to  see  the  man  in  my  par- 
ish who  would  venture  to  interfere  with  what  I  thought 
fit  to  do  in  the  matter.     Not  but  what  I  believe  that  vul- 
gar and    impertinent    individuals    might    be    found    who 
would  not  like  to  see  my  friend  approximating  too  closely 
tc:  their  own  magnificence;  but  if  there  be  a  thing  in  thia 
world  to  be  decisively  and  instantly  snubbed,  it  assuredly 
would   be   the   insolence  of  venturing  to  express,  in  my 
friend's  presence,  either  liking  or  dislike  in   the  case.     I 
have  known  a  talking  busybody,  a  relation  of  Miss  Lime- 
juice,  who  called  at  the  house  of  a  family  lately  come  to 
settle  in  a   remote  country  region,  to  inform  them   that 
their  dining  so  late   as   they  did   was   regarded  as  pre- 
sumptuous ;    and   that    various   neighboring  families  felt 
Hcrorrieved  that   their  own  dinner-hour,  hitherto  esteemed 
the  most  advanced  in  fashion,  had  been  transcended  by 
the  new-comers.     It  may  suffice  to  say,  tliat  though  the 
relation  of  Miss  Limejuice  was  treated  with  entii-e  civility, 
she  never  ventured  in  that  house  to  rei-iir  to  that  topic 
ai'ain.      It  is  curious   how  rapidly  it  comes  to  l)e   under- 
stood, whether  any  individual   jiossesses   iliat  cowed   and 
abject  nature  which  permits  impertinent  interference  in 
his  private  concerns,  or  not.     The  most  meddlesome  of 
tattling  old  women   knows  when  she  may  venture  to  re- 
peat Mrs.    Grundy's  opinion,   and   when  she  had  belter 
noi.     And  all  this  without  the  least  noisy  demonstration  ; 
all  this  with  very  little   reference  to   tlie  absolute   social 
position  of  the  person  to  be  interfered  with.     It  is  a  ques- 
tion of  the  nature  of  the  animal.     An  eagle,  you  know, 
is  a  smaller  animal  than   a  goose  ;  but  it  is  inexpedienJ 


240  CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION. 

to  interfere  with  the  former  bird.     If  you  have  any  un- 
pleasant advice  to  offer,  stick  to  the  goose,  my  friend ! 

It  is  worthy  of  notic<?,  that  in  the  respect  of  the  atti- 
tude which  men  assume  towards  the  world's  opinion,  the 
most  remarkable  change  sometimes  passes  over  them. 
We  all  know  that  human  beings,  in  the  course  of  their 
lives,  go  through  many  phases  of  opinion  and  feeling 
as  to  most  matters :  but  I  think  there  is  no  single 
matter  in  whi(;h  they  may  exhibit  extremes  so  far  apart 
as  in  the  matter  of  confidence  and  cowedness.  You  will 
find  men  who  as  school-boys  were  remarkable  for  their 
forwardness  :  who  were  always  ready  to  start  up  and 
roar  out  an  answer  in  their  class  ;  and  who  even  at 
college  were  pushing  and  confident,  and  quite  willing 
to  take  a  lead  among  their  fellow-students ;  but  who 
ten  years  after  leaving  the  university,  have  shnmk  into 
very  modest  and  retiring  and  timid  men.  I  have  known 
several  cases  in  which  this  was  so  ;  always  in  the  case 
of  men  who  had  carried  off  very  high  honors.  DouI)t- 
less  this  loss  of  confidence  is  in  some  measure  the  result 
of  growing  experience,  and  of  the  lowlier  estimate  of 
one's  own  powers  which  that  seldom  fails  to  bring  to 
men  of  sense ;  but  I  believe  that  it  is  in  no  small 
measure  the  result  of  a  nervous  system  early  over- 
driven, and  of  a  mental  constitution  from  which  th. 
elasticity  has  been  taken  by  too  hard  work,  gone  througl 
too  soon.  You  know  that  if  you  put  a  horse  in  harn(;s3 
at  three  years  old,  he  will,  if  he  be  a  good  horse,  do  his 
work  splendidly ;  but  he  will  not  do  it  long.  At  six 
years  old,  he  will  be  a  spiritless,  broken-down  creature. 
You  took  it  out  of  him  too  soon.  He  is  used  up.  And 
the  cleverest  young  men  at  the  universities  are  often  like 


CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  241 

the  horse  set  to  hard  work  at  three.  By  the  time  they 
are  two  and  twenty,  you  have  sometimes  taken  out  of 
them  the  best  that  will  ever  come.  Tliey  will  probably 
die  about  middle  age  ;  and  till  that  time  they  will  go 
heavily  through  life,  with  little  of  the  cheerful  spring. 
They  will  not  rise  to  the  occasion.  They  cannot  answer 
(he  spur.  They  are  prematurely  old :  weary,  jaded, 
cowed.  Oh  that  the  vile  system  of  midnight  toil  at  the 
univer-uties,  of  England  and  Scotland  and  America,  were 
finally  abolished  !  It  directly  encourages  many  of  the 
most  promising  of  the  race  to  mortgage  their  best  en- 
ergies and  their  future  years,  to  sustain  the  reckless 
expenditure  of  the  present.  It  would  be  an  invaluable 
blessing  if  it  were  made  a  law,  inexorable  as  those  of 
the  Medes,  that  no  honors  should  ever  be  given  to  any 
student  who  was  not  in  bed  by  eleven  o'clock  at  latest. 

It  is  a  sad  thing  when  any  person,  old  or  young,  goes 
through  his  work  in  a  cowed  spirit.  I  do  not  mean,  goes 
through  his  work  in  a  jaded,  heartless  way  merely,  but 
goes  through  his  work  in  the  bai'e  hope  of  escaping 
blame.  A  great  part  of  all  that  is  done  in  this  world 
is  done  in  this  way.  Many  children,  many  servants, 
many  clerks,  and  even  several  parsons,  go  through  their 
daily  round  thus.  I  need  not  say  how  poorl}'  that  work 
will  usually  be  done  which  the  man  wislirs  just  to  get 
through  without  any  great  reprobation  ;  but  tiiink  how 
unhappily  it  will  be  done,  and  what  a  niiserabic  training 
of  mind  and  heart  it  is  !  It  seems  to  me  that  few  people 
do  their  work  heartily,  and  really  as  well  as  they  can. 
And  people  whose  desire  is  merely  to  get  through  some- 
how, seem  to  stand  to  tiieir  work  as  at  a  level  below  it. 
The  man  who  honestly  does   his  be>t,  works  from  above; 

his  task  is  below  him  ;  he   is  master  of  it,  however  hard 
16 


242  CONCERNING   THE  WORLD'S   OPINION. 

it  mixy  be.  Tlie  man  who  hopes  no  more  than  to  escape 
censure,  and  who  accordingly  aims  at  nothing  more, 
seems  to  work  I'lom  below ;  his  task  is  above  him ;  lie 
is  cowed  by  it.  Let  us  resolve  that  we  shall  always  give 
praise  when  we  can.  You  will  find  many  people  who 
are  always  willing  to  find  fault  with  tlic^ir  servants,  if 
their  servants  do  anylhing  wrong,  but  who  never  say  an 
a[)proviiig  word  when  their  servants  do  right.  You  will 
find  many  people  who  do  tlie  like  as  to  their  children. 
And  only  too  often  that  wretched  management  breaks 
the  spring  of  the  youthful  spirit.  Yes,  many  little  chil- 
dren are  cowed ;  and  the  result  is  either  a  permanent 
dull  quiescence,  never  (o  be  got  over,  or  a  fierce  reaction 
against  the  accursed  tyranny  that  embittered  early  years 
—  a  reaction  which  may  sometimes  cast  off  entirely  the 
bonds  of  natural  affection,  and  even  of  moral  restraint. 
How  it  encourages  and  cheers  the  cowed  little  fellow, 
growing  up  in  the  firm  belief  that  he  is  hopelessly  wick- 
ed, and  never  can  do  anything  to  please  any  one,  to  try 
reward  as  a  change  from  constant  punishment  and  bully- 
ing !  I  have  seen  the  good  effect  upon  such  a  one  of  the 
kind  approving  word.  How  much  more  cheerfully  the 
work  will  ])('.  (lone;  how  much  better  it  will  be  done; 
and  how  much  happier  a  man  he  will  be  that  does  it! 
A  poor  fellow  who  never  expects  that  he  can  please,  and 
who  barely  hopes  that  he  may  pass  without  censure  and 
abuse,  will  do  his  task  very  heartlessly.  Let  us  praise 
warmly  and  heartily  wherever  praise  is  deserved.  And 
if  we  weigh  the  matter,  we  shall  find  that  a  great  deal  of 
hearty  praise  is  deserved  in  this  world  on  every  day  that 
shines  upon  it. 

May  I  conclude  by  saying,  that  many  worthy  people 


CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S   OPINION.  243 

go  through  their  rehgious  duties  in  a  thoroughly  cowed 
spii-it  ?  They  want  just  to  escape  God's  wrath  —  not  to 
gain  His  kind  favor.  The  great  spring  of  conduct  within 
them  is  not  love,  but  abject  terror.  Truly  a  mistal^en 
service  !  You  have  heard  of  the  devil-worshippers  in 
India ;  do  you  know  why  they  worship  the  devil  ?  Be- 
cause they  think  hira  a  very  powerful  being,  who  can  do 
Ihera  a  mischief  if  they  don't.  Does  not  the  worsliip 
of  the  Almighty,  rend(M'ed  in  that  cowed  spirit,  partake 
of  the  essential  nature  of  devil-worship  ?  Let  us  not 
love  and  serve  our  jNIaker,  my  reader,  because  we  are  in 
fear  that  He  will  torment  us  if  we  do  not.  Let  us  hum- 
bly love  and  serve  Him  because  He  is  so  good,  so  kind 
to  you  and  me,  because  He  loved  us  first,  and  because 
we  can  see  Him  and  His  glory  in  the  kindest  face  this 
world  ever  saw !  I  do  not  think  we  should  have  been 
afraid  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  I  do  not  think  we  need 
have  gone  in  a  cowed  spirit  to  Him.  And  in  Him  we 
have  tlie  only  manifestation  that  is  level  to  our  under- 
standing, of  the  Invisible  God.  I  think  we  could  have 
gone  to  Him  confidingly  as  a  little  cliild  to  a  kind 
mother.  I  think  we  should  have  feared  no  repulse,  no 
impatience,  as  we  told  to  Him  the  story  of  all  our  sins  and 
wants  and  cares.  AVe  can  picture  to  ourselves,  even  yet, 
the  kindly,  sorrowful  features  which  little  children  loved, 
and  which  drew  those  unsophisticated  beings  to  gather 
round  Him  without  a  fear.  Let  tliere  be  deep  humility, 
but  nothing  of  that  nnwortliy  terror.  You  remember 
what  we  know  on  the  best  of  all  authority  is  the  first 
and  great  thing  we  are  to  do.  It  is  not  to  cultivate  a 
cowed  spirit.  It  is  to  love  our  Maker  with  heart  and 
soul  and  mind. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


CONCERNING   THE    SORROWS   OF   CHILDHOOl"). 


^NCE  upon  a  time,  Mr.  Smith,  -who  was 
seven  feet  in  height,  went  ont  for  a  walk 
with  Sir.  Brown,  whose  stature  was  tliree 
^{c^  feet  and  a  Iialf.  It  was  in  a  distant  age,  in 
which  people  were  different  from  what  they  are  now,  and 
in  which  events  occurred  such  as  do  not  usually  occur  in 
these  days.  Smith  and  Brown,  having  traversed  various 
patlis,  and  liaving  passed  several  griffins,  serpents,  and 
mail-clad  knights,  came  at  length  to  a  certain  river.  It 
was  needful  that  they  sl)0uld  cross  it;  and  the  idea  was 
suggested  that  they  should  cross  it  by  wading.  They 
proceeded,  accordingly,  to  wade  across ;  and  both  arrived 
safely  at  tlie  farther  side.  The  water  was  exactly  four 
feet  deep,  —  not  an  inch  more  or  less.  On  reaching  the 
other  bank  of  the  river,  Mr.  Brown  said,  — ^ 

"  This  is  awful  work  ;  it  is  no  joke  crossing  a  river 
like  that.     I   was  nearly  drowned." 

"Nonsense!"  replied  Mr.  Smith;  "why  make  a  fuss 
about  crossing  a  shallow  stniam  like  this  ?  Why,  the 
water  is  only  four  feet  deep  :  that  is  nothing  at  all  !  " 

"Nothing  to  you,  perhaps,"  was  the  response  of  Mr. 
Brown,  "but  a  serious  matter  for  me.  You  observe," 
he  went  on,  "  that  water  four  feet  deep  is  just  six  inches 


CONCERNING  THE   SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.     245 

over  my  liead.     The  river  may  be  shallow  to  you,  but  it 
is  deep  to  me." 

Mr.  Smith,  like  many  other  individuals  of  great  physi- 
cal bulk  and  strength,  had  an  intellect  not  much  adapted 
for  conipreliending  subtile  and  difficult  thoughts.  lie 
took  up  tiie  ground  that  things  are  what  they  are  in  them- 
selves, and  was  inca[)able  of  grasping  the  idea  that  great- 
ness and  littleness,  depth  and  shallowness,  are  relative 
things.  An  altercation  ensued,  which  resulted  in  threats 
on  the  part  of  Smith  that  he  would  thiow  Brown  into  the 
river  ;  and  a  coolness  was  occasioned  between  the  friends 
which  subsisted  for  several  days. 

The  acute  mind  of  the  reader  of  this  page  will  per- 
ceive that  Mr.  Smith  was  in  error;  and  that  the  principle 
asserted  by  Mr.  Brown  was  a  sound  and  true  one.  It  is 
unquestionable  that  a  thing  which  is  little  to  one  man 
may  be  great  to  another  man.  And  it  is  just  as  really 
and  certainly  great  in  this  latter  case  as  anything  ever 
can  be.  And  yet,  many  people  do  a  tiling  exactly  analo- 
gous to  what  was  done  by  Smitli.  They  insist  that  the 
water  which  is  shallow  to  tiiem  shall  be  held  to  be  abso- 
lutely shallow  ;  and  that,  if  smaller  men  declare  that  it  is 
deep  to  themselves,  these  smaller  men  shall  be  regarded 
as  weak,  ianciful,  and  mistaken.  Many  people,  as  tliey 
look  back  upon  the  sorrows  of  their  own  childhood,  or  as 
they  look  round  uj)on  the  sorrows  of  existing  childhood, 
think  that  tliese  sorrows  are  or  were  very  light  and  insig- 
nificant, and  their  causes  very  small.  These  people  do 
this,  because  to  them,  as  they  are  now,  big  people,  (to  use 
the  expressive  phrase  of  childhood,)  these  sorrows  would 
•i^  be  light,  if  they  should  befall.  But  though  these  sorrows 
may  seem  light  to  us  now,  and  their  causes  small,  it  is 
only  as  water  four  feet  in  dejjth  was  shallow  to  the  tall 


246     CONCERNING  TITE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD. 

Mr.  Smith.  The  same  water  was  very  deep  to  the  man 
whose  stature  was  three  feet  and  a  half;  and  the  peril 
was  as  great  to  him  as  could  have  been  caused  by  eight 
feet  depth  of  water  to  the  man  seven  feet  high.  The 
little  cause  of  trouble  was  great  to  the  little  child.  The 
little  heart  was  as  full  of  grief  and  fear  and  bewilder- 
ment as  it  could  hold. 

Yes,  I  stand  up  against  the  common  belief  that  child- 
hood is  our  happiest  time.  And  whenever  I  hear  grown- 
up people  say  that  it  is  so,  I  think  of  Mr.  Smith  and  the 
water  four  feet  deep.  I  have  always,  in  my  heart,  re- 
belled against  that  common  delusion.  I  recall,  as  if  it 
were  yesterday,  a  day  wiiich  I  have  left  behind  me  more 
than  twenty  years.  I  see  a  large  hall,  the  hall  of  a  cer- 
tain educational  institution,  which  helped  to  make  tlie 
present  writer  what  he  is.  It  is  the  day  of  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  prizes.  The  hall  is  crowded  with  little  boys, 
and  with  the  relations  and  friends  of  the  little  boys. 
And  the  chief  magistrate  of  that  ancient  town,  in  all  the 
pomp  of  civic  majesty,  has  distributed  tlie  prizes.  It  is 
neither  here  nor  there  what  honors  were  borne  off  by  me; 
though  I  remember  well  that  that  day  was  the  proudest 
that  ever  had  come  in  my  short  life.  But  I  see  the  face 
and  hear  the  voice  of  the  kind-hearted  old  dignitary,  who 
has  now  been  fui-  many  years  in  iiis  grave.  And  I  recall 
especially  one  sentence  he  said,  as  he  made  a  few  elo- 
quent remarks  at  the  close  of  the  day's  proceedings. 

•'Ah,  boys,"  said  he,  "I  can  tell  you  this  is  the  hap- 
piest time  of  all  your  life  !  " 

"  Little  you  know  about  the  matter,"  was  my  inward 
reply. 

I  know  that  our  woiries,  fears,  and  sorrows  were  just 
as  great  as  thoie  of  any  one  else. 


C0NCERNIN(1    THE   SORROWS   OF   CHILDHOOD.     -247 

The   soiTows  of  childhood   and  boyhood  ai*e  not  sor- 
rows of  tliat  coii)i)Ucated  and  perplexing  nature  which  sit 
heavy  on  the  heart  in  after-years ;  but  in  relation  to  the 
little  hearts  that  have  to  bear  them,  they  are  very  over- 
whelming for  the  time.     As  has  been  said,  great  and  little 
are  quite  relative  terms.     A  weight  which  is  not  abso- 
lutely heavy  is  heavy  to  a  weak  person.      We  think  an 
intlustrious  flea  draws  a  va-t  weight,  if  it  dniws  the  eighth 
part  of  an  ounce.     And   I   believi-   tiiat  the  sorrows  of 
childhood  task  the  endurance  of  childhood  as  severely  as 
those  of  manhood  do  the  endurance  of  the  man.     Yes,  we 
look  back  now,  and  we  smile  at  them,  and  at  the  anguish 
they  occasioned,  because  they  would  be  no  great  matter 
to  n-N  now.     Yet  in  all  this  we  err  just  as  Mr.  Smith  the 
tall  man  erred,  in  that  discussion  with  the  little  man,  Mr. 
Brown.     Those   early  sorrows  were   great   things   then. 
Very  bitter  grief  may  be  in  a  very  little  heart.     "The 
sports  of  childhood,"  we  know  from  Goldsmith,  "  satisfy 
ihc   child."      The   sorrows   of   childhood   overwhelm    the 
poor  little   thing.      1    think    a   sympathetic  reader  would 
hardly  i-ead  witliout  a  tear,  as  well  as  a  smile,  an  incident 
in  the  early  life  of  Patrick  Fra>er  Tytler,  recorded  in  his 
oiography.     "When  five  years  old,  he  got  hold  of  the  gun 
•)f  an   elder  brother   and   broke    the   spring   of  its  lock. 
What  anguish  the  little  boy  must  have  endured,  what  a 
crushing  sense  of   having  caused  an   irrcmedial)le   evil, 
before  he  sat  down  and  printed  in  great  letters  the  follow- 
ing epistle  to  his  brother,  the  owner  of  the  gun  :  —  "  Oh, 
Jamie,  think  no  more  of  guns,  for  the  mainspring  of  that 
is  broken,  and  my  heart  is  broken!"     Doubtless  the  poor 
little  fellow  fancied  that  ibr  all  the  remainder  of  his  life 
he  never  could  feel  as  he  had  felt  before  he  had  touched 
ihe    unlucky    weapon.      And  looking    back   over   many 


248     CONCERNIXG    THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD. 

years,  most  of"  us  can  vcincinber  a  child  crushed  and 
oveiwhehned  by  some  tiouljle  which  it  thought  could 
never  be  got  over ;  and  we  can  feel  for  our  early  self  as 
though  sympatliizing  with  another  being. 

What  I  wish  in  this  essay  is,  that  we  should  look  away 
along  the  path  we  have  come  in  life  ;  and  that  we  should 
ee,  that,  though  many  cares  and  troubles  may  now  presa 
upon  us,  still  we  may  well  be  content.  I  speak  to  ordi- 
nary people,  whose  lot  has  been  an  ordinary  lot.  I  know 
there  are  exceptional  cases  ;  but  I  firmly  believe,  that, 
as  for  most  of  us,  we  never  have  seen  better  days  than 
these.  No  doubt,  in  the  retrospect  of  eai-ly  youth,  we 
seem  to  see  a  time  when  the  summer  was  brighter,  the 
flowers  sweeter,  the  snowy  days  of  winter  more  cheerful, 
than  we  ever  find  them  now.  But,  in  sober  sense,  we 
know  that  it  is  all  an  illusion.  It  is  only  as  the  man 
travelling  over  the  burning  desert  sees  sparkling  water 
and  shady  trees  where  he  knows  there  is  nothing  but  arid 
sand. 

I  dare  say  you  know  that  one  of  the  acutest  of  living 
men  has  maintained  that  it  is  foolish  to  grieve  over  past 
suffering.  He  says,  truly  enough  in  one  sense,  that  the 
suffering  which  is  past  is  as  truly  non-existent  as  the  suf- 
fering which  has  never  been  at  all ;  that,  in  fact,  past 
suffering  is  now  nothing,  and  is  entitled  to  no  more  con- 
sideration than  that  to  which  nothing  is  entitled.  No 
doubt,  when  bodily  pain  has  ceased,  it  is  all  over :  we  do 
not  feel  it  any  more.  And  you  have  probably  observed 
that  the  imi)ression  left  by  bodily  pain  passes  very  quick- 
ly away.  The  sleepless  night,  or  the  night  of  torment 
from  toothache,  which  seemed  such  a  distressing  reality 
while  it  was  dragging  over,  looks  a  very  shadowy  thing 
the  next  forenoon.     But  it  may  be  doubted  whether  you 


CONCEKNING  THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.     249 

will  ever  so  far  succeed  in  overcoming  the  fancies  and 
weaknesses  of  humanity  as  to  get  people  to  cease  to  feel 
that  past  sufferings  and  sorrows  are  a  great  part  of  their 
present  life.    Tlie  remembrance  of  our  past  life  is  a  great 
part  of  our  present  life.     And,  indeed,  the  greater  part 
of  human  suffering  consists  in  its  anticipation  and  in  its 
recollection.     It  is  so  by  the  inevitable  law  of  our  being. 
It  is  because  we  are  rational  creatures  that  it  is  so.     We 
cannot  help  looking  forward  to  that  which  is  coming,  and 
looking  back  on  that  which  is  past ;  nor  can  we  suppress, 
as  we  do  so,  an  emotion  corresponding  to  the  perception. 
There  is  not  the  least  use  in  telling  a  little  boy  who  knows 
that  he  is  to  have  a  tooth  pulled  out  to-morrow,  that  it  is 
absurd  in  him  to  make  himself  unhappy  to-night  through 
the  anticipation  of  it.     You  may  show  with  irrefragable 
force  of  reason,  that  the  pain  will  last  only  for  the  two  or 
three  seconds  during  which  the  tooth  is  being  wrenched 
from  its  place,  and   that  it  will   be   time  enough  to  vex 
himself  about  the  pain  when  he  has  actually  to  feel  it. 
But  the  little  fellow   will  jiass  but  an  unhappy  night  in 
the  dismal  prospect;  and  liy  the  time  the  cold  iron  lays 
hold  of  the  tooth,  he  will  have  endured  by  anticipation  a 
vast  deal  more  suffering  than  the  suffering  of  the  actual 
operation.     It  is  so  with  bigger  people,  looking  forward 
to  greater  trials.    And  it  serves  no  end  whatever  to  prove 
that  all  this   ought  not  to  be.     The  question  as  to  the 
emotions  turned  off  in  the  workings  of  the  human  mind 
is  one  of  fact.     It  is  not  how  tlie  machine  ought  to  work, 
but  how  the  machine  does  work.     And  as  with  the  anti- 
cipation of  suffering,  so  with   its  retrospect.     The  gi'eat 
grief  which    is    past,   even    though  its   consequences  no 
longer  directly  press  upon  us,  casts  its  shadow  over  after- 
years.    There  arc,  indeed,  some  hardships  and  trials  upon 


250     CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

which  it  is  possible  that  we  may  look  back  with  satisfac- 
tion. The  contrast  witii  them  enhances  the  enjoyment 
of  belter  days.  But  these  trials,  it  seems  to  me,  must  be 
such  as  come  through  the  direct  intervention  of  Provi- 
dence;  and  they  must  be  clear  of  tlie  elements  of  human 
cruelty  or  injustice.  I  do  not  believe  that  a  man  who 
was  a  weakly  and  timid  boy  can  ever  look  back  witii 
pleasure  upon  the  ill-usage  of  the  brutal  bully  of  his 
school-days,  or  upon  the  injustice  of  his  teacher  in  cheat- 
ing him  out  of  some  well-earned  prize.  There  are  kinds 
of  great  snfFei-ing  which  can  never  be  thought  of  without 
present  suffering,  so  long  as  human  nature  continues  what 
it  is.  And  I  believe  that  past  sorrows  are  a  great  realily 
in  our  present  life,  and  exert  a  great  influence  over  our 
present  life,  whether  for  good  or  ill.  As  you  may  see  in 
the  trembling  knees  of  some  poor  horse,  in  its  drooping 
head,  and  spiritless  paces,  that  it  was  overwrougiit  when 
young:  so,  if  the  human  soul  were  a  thing  that  could  be 
seen,  you  might  discern  the  scars  where  the  iron  entered 
into  it  long  ago,  —  you  might  trace  not  merely  the  endur- 
ing remembrance,  but  the  enduring  results,  of  the  inca- 
pacity and  dishonesty  of  teachers,  the  heartlessness  of 
companions,  and  the  idiotic  folly  and  cruelty  of  parents. 
No,  it  will  not  do  to  tell  us  that  past  sufferings  have 
ceased  to  exist,  while  their  remembrance  continues  so 
vivid,  and  tlieir  results  so  great.  You  are  not  done  with 
the  bitter  frosts  of  last  winter,  though  it  be  summer  now. 
if  your  blighted  evergreens  remain  as  their  result  and 
memorial.  And  the  man  who  was  brought  up  in  an  un- 
happy home  in  ciiildhood  will  never  feel  that  that  unhap- 
py home  has  ceased  to  be  a  present  reality,  if  he  knows 
that  its  whole  discipline  fostered  in  him  a  spirit  of  distrust 
in  his  kind  which  is  not  yet  entirely  got  over,  and  made 


CONCERNING  THE   SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.     251 

him  set  himself  to  the  work  of  life  with  a  heart  some- 
what soured  and  prematurely  old.  The  past  is  a  great 
reality.  We  are  here  the  living  embodiment  of  all  we 
have  seen  and  felt  through  all  our  life,  —  fashioned  into 
our  present  form  by  millions  of  little  touches,  and  by 
none  with  a  more  real  result  than  the  hours  of  soi-row 
we  have  known. 

One  great  cause  of  the  suffering  of  boyhood  is  the 
bullying  of  bigger  boys  at  schook  I  know  nothing  prac- 
tically of  the  English  system  o^  fagging  at  public  schools, 
but  I  am  not  prepared  to  join  out  and  out  in  the  cry 
against  it.  I  see  many  evils  inherent  in  the  system  ;  but 
I  see  that  various  advantages  may  result  from  it,  too. 
To  organize  a  recognized  subordination  of  lesser  boys  to 
bigger  ones  must  uiKpiestionably  tend  to  cut  the  ground 
from  under  the  feet  of  the  unrecognized,  unauthorized, 
private  bully.  But  I  know  that  at  large  schools,  where 
there  is  no  fagging,  bullying  on  the  part  of  youthful 
tyrants  prevails  to  a  great  degree.  Human  nature  is 
beyond  doubt  fallen.  The  systematic  cruelty  of  a  school- 
bully  to  a  little  boy  is  proof  enough  of  that,  and  })resent3 
one  of  the  very  hatefullest  jjliases  of  human  character. 
It  is  worthy  of  notice,  that,  as  a  general  rule,  the  higher 
you  ascend  in  the  social  scale  among  boys,  the  less  of 
bullying  there  is  to  be  found.  Something  of  the  chival- 
rous and  the  magnanimous  comes  out  in  the  case  of  the 
sons  of  gentlemen  :  it  is  only  among  such  that  you  will 
ever  find  a  boy,  not  personally  interested  in  the  matter, 
standing  up  against  the  bully  in  the  interest  of  right  and 
justice.  I  have  watched  a  big  boy  thrashing  a  little  one, 
in  the  presence  of  half  a  dozen  other  big  boys,  not  one 
of  whom  interfered  on  behalf  of  the  oppressed  little  fel- 


2o2      COXCKRXIXO  THE   SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD. 

low.  You  may  be  sure  I  did  not  watch  the  transaction 
longer  than  was  necessary  to  ascertain  whether  there  waa 
a  grain  of  generosity  in  the  Inilking  boors  ;  and  you  may 
be  sure,  too,  that  that  thrashing  of  tlie  little  boy  was,  to 
the  big  bully,  one  of  tlie  most  unfortunate  transactions 
in  which  he  had  engaged  in  his  bestial  and  blackguard, 
though  brief,  life.  1  took  care  of  tliat,  you  may  rely  on 
it.  And  I  favored  the  bully's  companions  with  my  sen- 
timents as  to  their  conduct,  with  an  energy  of  statement 
that  made  them  sneak  off,  looking  very  like  whipped 
Bpaniels.  My  friendly  reader,  let  us  never  fail  to  stop 
a  bully,  when  we  can.  And  we  very  often  can.  Among 
the  writer's  possessions  might  be  found  by  the  curious 
inspector  several  black  kid  gloves,  no  longer  lit  for  use, 
though  apparently  not  very  much  worn.  Surveying 
these  integuments  minutelv,  you  would  find  the  thuml) 
of  the  right  hand  rent  away,  beyond  the  possibility 
of  mending.  Whence  the  phenomenon  ?  It  conies  of 
the  writer's  determined  habit  of  stopping  the  bully. 
Walking  along  the  street,  or  the  country-road,  I  occa- 
sionally see  a  big  blackguard  fellow  thrashing  a  boy 
much  less  tliaii  himself.  I  am  well  aware  that  some 
prudent  individuals  would  pass  by  on  the  other  side, 
j)ossibly  addressing  an  admonition  to  the  big  blackguard. 
But  I  approve  Thomson's  statement,  that  "  prudence  to 
baseness  verges  still;"  and  I  follow  a  different  course. 
Sudderdy  a{)proaching  the  blackguard,  by  a  rapid  move- 
ment, generally  quite  unforeseen  by  him,  I  take  him  by 
the  arm,  and  occasionally  (let  me  confess)  by  the  neck, 
and  shake  him  till  his  teeth  rattle.  This,  being  done 
with  a  new  glove  on  the  right  hand,  will  generally  unfit 
that  glove  for  further  use.  For  the  bully  must  be  taken 
W'th  a  gripe  so  firm  and  sudden  as  shall  serve  to  paralyze 


CONCERNING   THE   SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.     253 

his  nervous  system  for  the  time.  And  never  once  have 
I  found  th(}  bully  fail  to  prove  a  whimpering  coward. 
The  punishment  is  well  deserved,  of  course ;  and  it  is 
a  terribly  severe  one  in  ordinary  cases.  It  is  a  serious 
thing,  in  the  estimation  both  of  the  bully  and  his  com- 
panions, that  he  should  have  so  behaved  as  to  have 
drawn  on  himself  the  notice  of  a  passer-by,  and  es- 
l)ecially  of  a  parson.  The  bully  is  instantly  cowed ; 
and  by  a  i'aw  words  to  any  of  his  school-associates  who 
may  be  near,  you  can  render  him  unenviably  conspicuous 
among  them  for  a  week  or  two.  I  never  permit  bullying 
to  pass  unchecked ;  and  so  long  as  my  strength  and  life 
remain,  I  never  will.  I  trust  you  never  will.  If  you 
could  stand  coolly  by,  and  see  the  cruelty  you  could 
check,  or  the  wrong  you  could  right,  and  move  no  finger 
to  do  it,  you  are  not  the  reader  I  want,  nor  the  human 
being  I  choose  to  know.  I  hold  the  cautious  and  saga- 
cious man,  who  can  look  on  at  an  act  of  bullying  with- 
out stopping  it  and  punishing  it,  as  a  worse  and  more 
despicable  animal  than  the  bully  himself. 

Of  course,  you  must  interfere  with  judgment  ;  and 
you  must  follow  up  your  interference  with  firmness. 
Don't  intermeddle,  like  Don  Quixote,  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  make  things  worse.  It  is  only  in  the  case  of  con- 
tinued and  systematic  cruelty  that  it  is  worth  while  to 
work  temporary  aggravation,  to  the  end  of  ultimate  and 
entire  relief.  And  sometimes  that  is  unavoidable.  You 
remenber  how,  when  Moses  made  his  application  to 
riiaraoh  for  release  to  the  Hebrews,  the  first  result 
was  the  aggravation  of  their  burdens.  Tlu;  su|>ply  of 
straw  was  cut  off,  and  the  tale  of  bricks  was  to  remain 
the  same  as  befoi-e.  It  could  not  be  helped.  And  though 
things  came  right  at  last,  the  immediate  consequence  was 


254     CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

that  the  Hebrews  turned  in  bitterness  on  their  intending 
deliverer,  and  charged  their  aggravated  sufferings  upon 
him.  Now,  my  friend,  if  you  set  yourself  to  the  discom- 
fiture of  a  bully,  see  you  do  it  effectually.  If  needful, 
follow  up  your  first  shaking.  Find  out  his  master,  find 
out  his  parents  ;  let  the  fellow  see  distinctly  that  your 
interference  is  no  passing  fancy.  Make  him  understand 
tliat  you  ai'e  thoroughly  determined  that  his  bullying 
shall  cease.  And  carry  out  your  determination  un- 
flinchingly. 

I  frequently  see  the  boys  of  a  certain  large  public 
school,  which  is  attemled  by  boys  of  the  better  class  ; 
and  judging  from  their  cheerful  and  happy  aspect,  I 
judge  that  bullying  among  boys  of  that  condition  is 
becoming  rare.  Still,  I  doubt  not,  there  yet  are  poor 
little  nervous  fellows  whose  pchool-life  is  embittered  by 
it.  I  don't  think  any  one  could  read  the  poet  Cowper's 
account  of  how  he  vva:^  bullied  at  school,  without  feeling 
his  blood  a  good  deal  stirred,  if  not  entirely  boiling.  If 
I  knew  of  such  a  case  within  a  good  many  miles,  I  should 
stop  it,  though  I  never  wore  a  glove  again  that  was  not 
split  across  the  right  palm. 

But,  doubtless,  the  greatest  cause  of  the  sorrows  of 
childhood  is  the  mismanagement  and  cruelty  of  parents. 
You  will  find  many  parents  who  make  favorites  of  some 
of  their  children  to  the  neglect  of  others  :  an  error  and 
a  sin  which  is  bitterly  felt  by  the  children  who  are  held 
down,  and  which  can  never  by  possibility  lesult  in  good 
to  any  party  concerned.  And  there  are  parents  who  de- 
liberately lay  themselves  out  to  torment  their  children. 
There  arc.  two  classes  of  parents  who  are  the  most  in- 
exorably cruel  and  malignant :  it  is  hard  to  say  which 


CONCERNING  THE   SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.     255 

cla;^s  excels,  but  it  is  certain  that  both  classes  exceed  all 
ordinary  mortals.  One  is  the  utterly  blackguard  :  the 
parents  about  whom  there  is  no  good  nor  pretence  of 
pood.  The  other  is  the  wrongheadedly  conscientious  and 
religious  :  probably,  after  all,  there  is  greater  rancor  and 
malice  about  these  last  tlian  about  any  other.  These  act 
upon  a  system  of  unnatural  repression,  and  systematized 
weeding  out  of  all  enjoyment  from  life.  These  are  the 
people  whose  very  crowning  act  of  hatred  and  malice 
towards  any  one  is  to  pray  for  him,  or  to  threaten  to 
pray  for  him.  These  are  the  people  who.  if  their  chil- 
dren complain  of  their  bare  and  joyless  life,  say  that 
such  complaints  indicate  a  wicked  heart,  or  Satanic 
possession  ;  and  have  recourse  to  further  persecution  to 
bring  about  a  happier  frame  of  mind.  Yes  :  the  wrong- 
headed  and  wrong-hearted  religionist  is  probably  the  very 
worst  type  of  man  or  woman  on  whom  the  sun  looks 
down.  And,  oh  !  how  sad  to  think  of  the  fashion  in 
which  stupid,  conceited,  malicious  blockheads  set  up  their 
own  worst  passions  as  the  fruits  of  the  working  of  the 
Blessed  Spirit,  and  caricatui-e,  to  the  lasting  injury  of 
many  a  young  heart,  tlic,  i)un'  and  kindly  i-ch'gion  of  the 
lilessed  Redeemer  !  These  are  the  folk  who  inflict  sys- 
tematic and  ingenious  torment  on  their  cliildien  :  and, 
unhappily,  a  very  contemptible  parent  can  inflict  much 
suffering  on  a  sensitive  child.  But  of  this  there  is  more 
to  be  said  hereafter  ;  and  before  going  on  to  it,  let  us 
think  of  another  evil  influence  which  darkens  and  embit- 
ters the  early  years  of  many. 

It  is  the  cruelty,  injustice,  and  incompetence  of  many 
schoolmasters.  I  know  a  young  man  of  twenty-eight, 
who  told  me,  that,  when  at  school  in  a  certain  large  city 
in   Peru,  (let  us  say.)  he  never  went  into  his  class  any 


^56     CONCEEXING  THE  SORROWS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

day  witliout  feeling  quite  sick  with  nervous  terror.  The 
entire  cla^s  of  boys  Hved  in  that  state  of  cowed  submis- 
pion  to  a  vulgar,  stu[)id,  bullying,  flogging  barbarian.  If 
it  prevents  the  manners  from  becoming  brutal  diligently 
to  study  the  ingenuous  arts,  it  appears  cei'tain  that  dili- 
gently to  teach  them  sometimes  leads  to  a  directly  con- 
trary result.  The  bullying  schoolmaster  has  now  become 
an  almost  exiinct  animal  ;  but  it  is  not  very  long  since 
the  spirit  of  Mr.  Squeers  was  to  be  found,  in  its  worst 
manifestations,  far  beyond  the  precincts  of  Dotheboys 
Hall.  You  would  find  fellows  who  ,-howed  a  grim  de- 
light in  walking  down  a  class  with  a  cane  in  their  hand, 
enjoying  the  evident  fear  they  occasioned  as  they  swung 
it  about,  occasionally  coming  down  with  a  savage  whack 
on  some  poor  fellow  who  was  doing  nothing  whatsoever. 
These  brutal  teachers  would  flog,  and  that  till  compelled 
to  cease  by  pure  exhaustion,  not  merely  for  moral  of- 
fences, which  possibly  deserve  it,  (though  I  do  not  believe 
any  one  was  ever  made  better  by  flogging,)  but  for  mak- 
ing a  mistake  in  saying  a  lesson,  wliich  the  ])()or  boy  had 
done  his  best  to  prepare,  and  which  was  driven  out  of  hi* 
head  by  the  fearful  aspect  of  the  truculent  blackguard 
with  his  cane  and  his  hoarse  voice.  And  how  indignant, 
in  after-years,  many  a  boy  of  the  last  generation  must 
have  been,  to  find  that  this  tyrant  of  his  childhood  was 
ia  truth  a  humbug,  a  liar,  a  fool,  and  a  sneak !  Yet  how 
that  miserable  piece  of  humanity  was  feared  !  How  they 
watched  his  eye,  and  laughed  at  the  old  idiot's  wretch(!(J, 
jokes  !  I  have  several  friends  who  have  told  me  such 
stories  of  their  school-days,  (hat  I  used  to  wonder  that 
they  did  not,  after  they  l)ecame  men,  return  to  the  school- 
boy spot  that  they  might  heaitily  shake  their  preceptor 
of  other  years,  or  even  kick  liim  ! 


CONCERNING   THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.     257 

If  there  be  a  thing  to  be  wondered  at,  it  is  that  tlie 
human  race  is  not  much  worse  than  it  is.  It  has  not  a 
fair  chance.  I  am  not  thinking  now  of  an  original  de- 
fect in  the  material  provided  :  I  am  thinking  only  of  the 
kind  of  handling  it  gets.  I  am  thinking  of  the  amount 
of  judgment  which  may  be  found  in  most  parents  and  in 
most  teachers,  and  of  the  degree  of  honesty  which  may 
be  found  in  many.  I  suppose  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
accursed  system  of  the  cheap  Yorkshire  schools  was  by 
no  means  caricatured  by  Mr.  Dickens  in  "  Nicholas 
Nickleby."  I  believe  that  starvation  and  brutality  were 
the  rule  at  these  institutions.  And  I  do  not  think  it  says 
much  for  the  manliness  of  Yorkshire  men  and  of  Yorkshire 
clergymen,  that  these  foul  dens  of  misery  and  wickedness 
were  suffered  to  exist  so  long  without  a  voice  raised  to  let 
the  world  know  of  them.  I  venture  to  think,  that,  if  Dr. 
Guthrie  of  Edinburgh  had  lived  anywhere  near  Greta 
Bridge,  Mr.  Squeers  and  his  compeers  would  have  attained 
a  notoriety  that  would  have  stopped  their  trade.  I  can- 
not imagine  how  any  one,  with  the  spirit  of  a  man  in  him, 
could  sleep  and  wake  within  sight  of  one  of  these  schools 
without  lifting  a  hand  or  a  voice  to  stop  what  was  goin;!; 
on  there.  But  without  supposing  these  extreme  cases,  I 
can  remember  what  I  have  myself  seen  of  the  incom- 
petence and  injustice  of  teachers.  I  burn  with  indigna- 
tion yet,  as  I  think  of  a  malignant  blockhead  who  once 
taught  me  for  a  few  months.  I  have  been  at  various 
schools  ;  and  I  spent  six  years  at  one  venerable  univer- 
sity (where  my  instructors  were  wise  and  worthy)  ;  and 
I  am  now  so  old,  that  I  may  say,  without  any  great  ex- 
hibition of  vanity,  that  I  have  always  kept  well  up  among 
my  school  and  college  companions  :  but  that  blockhead 
kept  me  steadily  at  the  bottom  of  my  class,  and  kept  a 
17 


2o8     CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS   OF  CIIII.DnoOD. 

frightful  dunce  at  the  top  of  it,  by  his  peculiar  system. 
I  have  observed  (let  me  say)  that  masters  and  professors 
who  are  stupid  themselves  have  a  great  preference  for 
stupid  fellows,  and  like  to  keep  down  clever  ones.  A 
])rofessor  who  was  himself  a  dunce  at  college,  and  who 
has  been  jobbed  into  his  chair,  being  quite  unfit  for  it, 
has  a  fellow-ieeling  for  other  dunces.  He  is  at  home 
with  them,  you  see,  and  is  not  afraid  that  they  see 
^lirougli  him  and  despise  him.  The  injustice  of  the 
malignant  blockhead  who  was  my  early  instructor,  and 
who  succeeded  in  making  several  months  of  my  boyhood 
unhappy  enough,  was  taken  up  and  imitated  by  several 
lesser  blockheads  among  the  boys.  I  remember  particu- 
larly one  sneaking  wretch  who  was  occasionally  set  to 
mark  down  on  a  slate  the  names  of  such  boys  as  talked  in 
Bchool ;  such  boys  being  punished  by  being  turned  to  the 
bottom  of  their  class.  I  remember  how  that  sneaking 
wretch  used  always  to  mark  my  name  down,  though  I 
kept  perfectly  silent :  and  how  he  put  my  name  last  on 
the  list,  that  I  might  have  to  begin  the  lesson  the  very 
lowest  in  my  form.  The  sneaking  wretch  was  bigger 
than  I,  so  I  could  not  thrash  him  ;  and  any  representa- 
tion I  made  to  the  malignant  blockhead  of  a  schoolmaster 
was  entirely  disregarded.  I  cannot  think  but  with  con- 
siderable ferocity,  that  probably  there  are  many  schools 
tu-day  in  Britain  containing  a  master  who  has  taken  an 
unreasonable  dislik(^  to  some  poor  boy,  and  who  lays 
liimself  out  to  make  that  poor  boy  unhappy.  And  I 
know  that  such  may  be  the  case  where  the  boy  is  neither 
bad  nor  stupid.  And  if  the  school  be  one  attended  by  a 
good  many  boys  of  the  lower  grade,  there  are  sure  to  be 
several  sn<;aky  boys  among  them  who  will  devote  them- 
selves to  tormenting  the  one  whom  the  master  hates  and 
torments. 


CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS   OF   CHILDHOOD.     259 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  there  is  a  generous  and  mag- 
nanimous tone  about  the  boys  of  a  school  attended  ex- 
clusively by  the  children  of  the  better  classes,  which  is 
unknown  among  the  children  of  uncultivated  boors.  I 
liave  observed,  that,  if  you  oifer  a  prize  to  the  cleverest 
and  most  industrious  boy  of  a  certain  form  in  a  school 
of  the  upper  class,  and  propose  to  let  the  prize  be  de- 
cided by  the  votes  of  the  boys  themselves,  you  will  al- 
most invariably  find  it  fairly  given  :  that  is,  given  to  the 
boy  who  deserves  it  best.  If  you  explain,  in  a  frank, 
manly  way,  to  the  little  fellows,  that,  in  asking  each  for 
whom  he  votes,  you  are  asking  each  to  say  upon  his 
honor  whom  he  thinks  the  cleverest  and  most  diligent 
boy  in  the  form,  nineteen  boys  out  of  twenty  will  an- 
swer honestly.  But  I  have  witnessed  the  signal  failure 
of  such  an  appeal  to  the  honor  of  the  bum[)kins  of  a 
country-school.  I  was  once  present  at  the  examination 
of  such  a  school,  and  remarked  carefully  how  the  boys 
acquitted  themselves.  After  the  examination  was  over, 
the  master  {)roposed,  very  absurdly,  to  let  the  boys  of 
each  class  vote  the  prize  for  that  particular  class.  The 
voting  began.  A  class  of  about  twenty  was  called  up  : 
1  exi)lained  to  the  boys  what  they  were  to  do.  I  told 
them  they  were  not  to  vote  for  the  boy  they  liked  best, 
but  were  to  tell  me  faithfully  who  had  done  best  in  the 
class-lessons.  I  then  asked  the  first  boy  in  the  line  for 
whom  he  gave  his  vote.  To  my  murtilication,  instead 
of  voting  for  a  little  fellow  who  had  done  incomparably 
best  at  the  examination,  he  gave  his  vote  for  a  big  sul- 
len-looking blockhead  who  had  done  conspicuously  ill. 
I  asked  tlie  next  boy,  and  received  the  same  answer. 
So  all  round  the  class :  all  voted  for  the  big  sullen- 
looking    blockhead.       One    or    two    did    not    give    their 


260     CONCERNING   THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD. 

votes  quite  promptly  ;  and  I  could  discern  a  threaten- 
ing glance  cast  at  them  by  the  big  sullen-looking  block- 
head, and  an  ominous  clinching  of  the  blockhead's  right 
fist.  I  went  round  the  class  without  remark  ;  and  the 
blockhead  made  sure  of  the  prize.  Of  course  this  would 
not  do.  The  blockhead  could  not  be  suffered  to  get  the 
])rize ;  and  it  was  expedient  that  he  should  be  made  to 
remember  the  occasion  on  which  he  had  sought  to  tam- 
])er  witii  justice  and  right.  Addressing  the  blockhead, 
amid  the  dead  silence  of  the  school,  I  said  :  "  You  shall 
not  get  the  prize,  because  I  can  judge  for  myself  that 
you  don't  deserve  it.  I  can  see  that  you  are  the  stupid- 
est boy  in  the  class ;  and  I  have  seen  reason,  during  this 
voting,  to  believe  that  you  are  the  worst.  You  have 
tried  to  bully  these  boys  into  voting  for  you.  Their 
vofes  go  for  nothing  ;  for  their  voting  for  you  proves 
<'itiier  tiiat  they  are  so  stupid  as  to  think  you  d(;serve  the 
prize,  or  so  dishonest  as  to  say  they  think  so  wlu'n  they 
don't  think  so."  Then  I  inducted  the  blockhead  into  a 
seat  where  I  could  see  him  well,  and  proceeded  to  take 
the  votes  over  again.  I  explained  to  the  boys  once  more 
what  they  had  to  do  ;  and  explaine<l  that  any  boy  would 
ije  telling  a  lie  who  voted  the  prize  unfairly.  I  also 
told  them  that  I  knew  who  deserved  the  prize,  and  that 
they  knew  it  too,  and  that  thrj  had  better  vote  fairly. 
Then,  instead  of  saying  to  each  boy,  "  For  whom  do 
you  vote?"  I  said  to  each,  "Tell  me  who  did  best 
ill  the  class  during  these  months  past."  Each  boy  in 
r<^ply  named  the  boy  who  really  deserved  the  prize : 
and  the  little  fellow  got  it.  I  need  not  record  the  means 
I  adopted  to  prevent  the  sullen-looking  blockhead  from 
carrying  out  his  purpose  of  lin-ashing  the  little  fellow. 
It  may  suffice  to  say  that  the  means  were  thoroughly 


CONCERNING  THE   SORROWS   OF   CHILDHOOD.     261 

effectual  ;   and  that   the  blockhead  was  very    meek  and 
tractable  for  about  six  weeks  after  that  memorable  day. 

But,  after  all,  the  great  cause  of  the  sorrows  of  child- 
hood is  unquestionably  the  mismanagement  of  parents. 
You  hear  a  great  deal  about  parents  who  spoil  their 
(children  by  excessive  kindness  ;  but  I  venture  to  think 
(hat  a  greater  number  of  children  are  spoiled  by  stupid- 
ity and  cruelty  on  the  part  of  their  parents.  You  may 
find  parents  who,  having  started  from  a  humble  origin, 
have  attained  to  wealth,  and  who,  instead  of  being  glad 
to  think  that  their  children  are  better  off  than  they  them- 
selves were,  exhibit  a  diabolical  jealousy  of  their  chil- 
dren. You  will  find  such  wretched  beings  insisting  that 
their  children  shall  go  through  needless  trials  and  mor- 
tifications, because  they  themselves  went  through  the 
like.  Why,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  one  of  the 
thoughts  which  would  most  powerfully  lead  a  worthy 
man  to  value  material  prosperity  would  be  the  thought 
that  his  boys  would  have  a  fairer  and  happier  start  in 
life  than  he  had,  and  would  be  saved  the  many  dillicul- 
ties  on  which  he  still  looks  back  with  pain.  You  will 
find  parents,  especially  parents  of  the  pharisaical  and 
wrong-headedly  religious  class,  who  seem  to  hold  it  a 
sacred  duty  to  make  the  little  things  unhappy ;  who 
systematically  endeavor  to  render  life  as  bare,  ugly,  and 
wretched  a  thing  as  possible ;  who  never  praise  their 
children  when  they  do  right,  but  punish  them  with  great 
severity  when  they  do  wrong  ;  who  seem  to  hate  to  see 
their  children  lively  or  cheerful  in  their  presence  ;  who 
thoroughly  repel  all  sympathy  or  confidence  on  the  part 
of  their  children,  and  then  mention  as  a  proof  that  their 
children   are   possessed   by  the  Devil,  that   tlieir  children 


262     CONCERNING  THE   SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD. 

always  like  to  get  a\v:iy  from  them ;  who  rejoice  to  cut 
off  any  little  enjoyinciit,  —  I'igi'Hy  carrying  out  into 
practice  the  fuMdamenfal  principle  of  their  creed,  which 
undoubtedly  is,  that  "  nobody  should  ever  please  him- 
self, neither  should  anybody  ever  please  anybody  else, 
because  in  either  case  he  is  sure  to  displease  God." 
No  doubt,  Mr.  Buckle,  in  his  second  volume,  caricatured 
and  misi'epresented  the  religion  cf"  Scotland  as  a  coun- 
try ;  but  he  did  not  in  the  least  degree  caricature  or 
misrepresent  the  religion  of  some  people  in  Scotland. 
The  great  doctrine  underlying  all  other  doctrines,  in  the 
creed  of  a  few  unfortunate  beings,  is,  that  God  is  spite- 
fully angry  to  see  his  creatures  happy  ;  and  of  course 
the  practical  lesson  follows,  that  they  are  following  the 
best  example,  when  they  are  spitefully  angry  to  see 
their  children  hap[)y. 

Then  a  great  trouble,  always  pressing  heavily  on 
many  a  little  mind,  is  that  it  is  overtasked  with  lessons. 
You  still  see  here  and  there  idiotic  parents  striving  to 
make  infant  jjlienomena  of  their  cliildren,  and  recording 
with  much  ])ride  how  their  childien  could  read  and 
write  at  an  uiniatiii-ally  early  age.  Such  parents  are 
fools :  not  necessarily  malicious  fools,  but  fools  beyond 
question.  The  great  use  to  which  the  first  six  or  seven 
years  of  life  should  be  given  is  the  laying  the  foundation 
of  a  healthful  constitution  in  body  and  mind ;  and  the 
instilling  of  those  first  principles  of  duty  and  religion 
which  do  not  need  to  be  taught  out  of  any  books.  Even 
if  you  do  not  permanently  injure  the  young  brain  and 
mind  by  prematurely  overtasking  them,  —  even  if  you 
do  not  permanently  blight  the  bodily  health  and  break 
the  mind's  cheerful  spring,  you  gain  nothing.  Your 
child  at  fourteen  years  old  is  not  a  bit  farther  advanced 


CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.     263 

in  his  education  than  a  child  who  began  his  yeai'S  after 
him  ;  and  the  entire  result  of  your  stupid  driving  has 
been  to  evercloud  some  daj'S  which  should  have  been 
among  the  happiest  of  his  life.  It  is  a  woful  sight  tc 
ine  to  see  the  little  forehead  corrogated  with  mental 
effort,  though  the  effoil  be  to  do  no  more  than  master 
the  multi{)lioation  table :  it  was  a  sad  story  I  lately  heard 
of  a  little  boy  repeating  his  Latin  lesson  over  and  over 
again  in  the  delirium  of  the  fever  of  which  he  died,  and 
saying  piteously  tiiat  indeed  he  could  not  do  it  better. 
I  don't  like  to  see  a  little  face  looking  unnaturally  anx- 
ious and  earnest  about  a  horrible  task  of  spelling  ;  and 
even  when  children  pass  tliat  stage,  and  grow  up  into 
school-boys  who  can  read  Thucydides  and  write  Greek 
iambics,  it  is  not  wise  in  parents  to  stimulate  a  clever 
boy's  anxiety  to  hold  the  first  place  in  his  class.  That 
anxiety  is  strong  enough  already  ;  it  needs  rather  to  be 
repressed.  It  is  bad  enough  even  at  college  to  work  on 
late  into  the  night ;  but  at  school  it  ought  not  to  be  suf- 
fered for  one  moment.  If  a  lad  takes  his  place  in  his 
class  every  day  in  a  state  of  nervous  tremor,  he  may  be 
in  the  way  to  get  his  gold  medal,  indeed  ;  but  he  is  in 
the  way  to  shatter  his  constitution  for  life. 

We  all  know,  of  course,  that  children  are  subjected  to 
worse  things  than  these.  I  think  of  little  things  early 
set  to  hard  work,  to  add  a  little  to  their  parent's  scanty 
elore.  Yet,  if  it  be  only  work,  they  bear  it  cheerfully. 
This  afternoon,  I  was  walking  through  a  certain  quiet 
street,  when  I  saw  a  little  child  standing  with  a  basket  at 
a  door.  The  little  man  looked  at  various  passers-by ; 
and  I  am  happy  to  say,  that,  wlien  he  saw  me,  he  asked 
me  to  ring  the  door-bell  Ibr  him  :  for,  though  he  had 
been  sent  with  that  ba.-ket,  which  was  not  a  light  one,  he 


26'i     CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD. 

could  not  reach  up  to  the  bell.  I  asked  him  how  old  ho 
was.  "  Five  years  past,"  said  the  child,  quite  cheerfully 
and  independently.  "  God  help  you,  poor  little  man  ! " 
I  thought ;  "the  doom  of  toil  has  fallen  early  upon  you  !  " 
If  you  visit  much  among  the  poor,  few  things  will  touch 
yru  more  than  the  unnatural  sagacity  and  trustworthiness 
of  children  who  are  little  more  than  babies.  You  will 
lin  1  these  little  things  left  in  a  bare  room  by  themselves, 
—  the  eldest  six  years  old,  —  while  the  poor  mother  is 
out  at  her  work.  And  the  eldest  will  reply  to  your  ques- 
tions in  a  way  that  will  astonish  you,  till  you  get  accus- 
tomed to  such  things.  I  think  that  almost  as  heart-rend- 
ing a  sight  as  you  will  readily  see  is  the  misery  of  a  little 
thing  who  has  spilt  in  the  street  the  milk  she  was  sent  to 
fetch,  or  broken  a  jug,  and  who  is  sitting  in  despair  beside 
the  spilt  milk  or  the  broken  fragments.  Good  Samaritan, 
never  pass  by  such  a  sight;  bring  out  your  twopence; 
set  things  completely  right :  a  small  matter  and  a  kind 
word  will  cheer  and  comfort  an  overwhelmed  heart.  That 
child  has  a  truculent  step-mother,  or  (alas !)  mother,  at 
home,  who  would  punish  that  mishap  as  nothing  should  be 
punished  but  the  gravest  moral  delinquency.  And  lower 
down  the  scale  than  this,  it  is  awful  to  see  want,  cold, 
hunger,  rags,  in  a  little  child.  I  have  seen  the  wee  thing 
shuflling  along  the  pavement  in  great  men's  shoes,  hold- 
irg  up  its  sorry  tatters  with  its  hands,  and  casting  on  the 
passengers  a  look  so  eager,  yet  so  hopeless,  as  went  to 
one's  heart.  Let  us  thank  God  that  there  is  one  large 
city  in  the  empire  where  you  need  never  see  such  a  sight, 
and  where,  if  you  do,  you  know  how  to  relieve  it  effectu- 
ally ;  and  let  us  bless  the  name  and  the  labors  and  the 
genius  of  Thomas  Guthrie!  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  see  the 
toys  of  such  little   children   as   I    can    think   of.     What 


CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.     265 

curious  things  they  are  able  to  seek  amusement  in !  I 
have  known  a  brass  button  at  the  end  of  a  string  a  much 
prized  possession.  I  have  seen  a  grave  little  boy  stand- 
ing by  a  broken  chair  in  a  bare  garret,  solemnly  arrang- 
ing and  rearranging  two  pins  upon  tiie  broken  chair.  A 
machine  much  employed  by  poor  children  in  country- 
places  is  a  slate  tied  to  a  bit  of  string:  this,  being  drawn 
along  the  road,  constitutes  a  cart ;  and  you  may  find  it 
attended  by  the  admiration  of  the  entire  young  popu- 
lation of  three  or  four  cottages  standing  in  the  moorland 
miles  from  any  neighbor. 

You  will  not  unfrequently  find  parents  who,  if  they 
cannot  keep  back  their  children  from  some  little  treat, 
will  try  to  infuse  a  sting  inlo  it,  so  as  to  prevent  the  chil- 
dren from  enjoying  it.  Tliey  will  impress  on  their  chil- 
dren that  they  must  be  very  wicked  to  care  so  much 
about  going  out  to  some  children's  party  ;  or  they  will 
insist  that  their  children  should  return  home  at  some  pre- 
posterously early  hour,  so  as  to  lose  the  best  part  of  the 
fun,  and  so  as  to  appear  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  their 
young  companions.  You  will  find  this  amiable  tendency 
in  people  intrusted  with  the  care  of  older  children.  I 
have  heard  of  a  man  wiiose  nephew  lived  with  him,  and 
lived  a  very  cheerless  life.  When  the  season  came  round 
at  which  the  lad  hojied  to  be  allowed  to  go  and  visit  his 
parents,  he  ventured,  after  much  hesitation,  to  hint  tiiii 
to  his  uncle.  Of  course  the  uncle  felt  that  it  was  quite 
right  the  lad  should  go,  but  he  grudged  him  the  chance 
of  the  little  enjoyment,  and  the  happy  thought  struck  him 
that  he  might  let  the  lad  go,  and  at  the  same  time  make 
the  poor  fellow  uncomfortable  in  going.  Accordingly  he 
conveyed  his  permission  to  the  lud  to  go  by  roaring  out 


266     CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 

in  a  savage  manner,  "  Begone  !  "  This  made  the  poof 
lad  feel  as  if  it  were  his  duty  to  stay,  and  as  if  it  were 
very  wicked  in  him  to  wish  to  go  ;  and  though  he  ulti- 
mately went,  he  enjoyed  his  visit  with  only  half  a  heart. 
There  are  parents  and  guardians  who  take  great  pains 
to  make  their  children  think  themselves  very  bad,  —  to 
make  the  little  things  grow  up  in  the  endurance  of  the 
pangs  of  a  bad  conscience.  For  conscience,  in  children, 
is  a  quite  artificial  thing:  you  may  dictate  to  it  wiiat  it  is 
to  say.  And  parents,  often  injudicious,  sometimes  malig- 
nant, not  seldom  apply  hard  names'  to  their  children, 
which  sink  down  into  the  little  heart  and  memory  far' 
more  deeply  than  they  think.  If  a  child  cannot  eat  fat, 
you  may  instil  into  him  that  it  is  because  he  is  so  wicked ; 
and  he  will  believe  you  for  a  while.  A  favorite  weapon 
in  the  hands  of  some  parents,  who  have  devoted  them- 
selves diligently  to  making  their  children  miserable,  is  .to 
frequently  predict  to  the  children  the  remorse  which  they 
(the  children)  will  feel  alter  they  (the  parents)  are  dead. 
In  such  cases,  it  would  be  difficult  to  specify  the  precise 
things  which  the  children  are  to  feel  remorseful  about. 
It  must  just  be,  generally,  because  they  were  so  wicked, 
and  because  they  did  not  sufficiently  believe  the  infalli- 
bility and  impeccability  of  their  ancestors.  I  am  re- 
minded of  the  woman  mentioned  by  Sam  Weller,  whose 
husband  disappeared.  The  woman  had  been  a  fearful 
termagant  ;  the  husband,  a  very  iiioffiinsive  man.  After 
his  disappearance,  the  woman  issued  an  advertisement, 
assuring  him,  that,  if  he  returned,  he  would  be  fully  for- 
given ;  which,  as  Mr.  Weller  justly  remarked,  was  very 
generous,  seeing  he  had  never  done  anything  at  all. 

Yes,  the  conscience  of  children  is  an  artiflcial  and  a 
sensitive  thing.     The  other  day,  a  friend  of  mine,  who  is 


CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS   OF   CHILDHOOD.     267 

one  of  the   kindest  of  parents  and  the  naost  amiable  of 
men,  told  me  what  hap]iened  in  his  house  on  a  certain 
Fast-day.     A  Scotch   Fast-day,  you   may  remember,  is 
the  institution  which  so  completely  puzzled  Mr.  Buckle. 
That  historian  fancied  that  to  fast  means  in  Scotland  to 
abstain   from  food.     Had   Mr.   Buckle   known   anything 
whatever  about  Scotland,  he  would  have  known  that  a 
Scotch  Fast-day  means  a  week-day  on  which  people  go 
to  church,  but  on  which   (especially  in  the  dwellings  of 
the  clergy)  there  is  a  better  dinner  than  usual.     I  never 
knew  man  or  woman  in  all  my  life  who  on  a  Fast-day 
refrained  from  eating.    And  quite  right,  too.    The  growth 
of  common  sense  has  gradually  abolished  literal  fasting. 
In  a  warm  Oriental  climate,  abstinence  from  food  may 
give  the  mind   the  preeminence  over  the  body,  and  so 
leave  the  mind  better  fitted  for  religious  duties.     In  our 
country,  literal  fasting  would  have  just  the  contrary  ef- 
fect :  it  would  give  the  body  the  mastery  over  the  soul ; 
it  would  make  a  man  so  physically  uncomfortable  that  he 
could  not  attend  with  profit  to  his  religious  duties  at  all. 
I  am  aware,  Anglican  reader,  of  the  defects  of  my  coun- 
trymen ;  but  commend  me  to  the  average  Scotchman  for 
sound  practical  sense.      But  to  return.     These  Fast-days 
are  by  many  people  observed  as  rigorously  as  the  Scotch 
Sunday.     On   tlie  forenoon   of  such  a  day,  my  friend's 
little  child,  tlu'ee  years  old,  came  to  him  in  much  distress. 
She  said,  as  one  who  had  a  fearful  sin  to  confess,  "  I  have 
been  playing  with  my  toys  this  morning;"  and  then  be- 
gan to  cry  as  if  her  little  heart  would   break.     I  know 
some   stupid  parents   who  would   have  strongly  encour- 
aged  this   needless   sensitiveness ;   and    who   would   thus 
have  made  their  child  unhappy  at  the  time,  and  prei)ared 
ihe  way  lor  an  indignant  bursting  of  these  artificial  tram 


2G8     CONCERNING   THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD. 

mels  wlien  the  cliild  had  grown  up  to  maturity.  But  my 
friend  was  not  of  tliat  ,-tamp.  He  comforted  the  little 
thing,  and  told  her,  that,  though  it  might  be  as  well  not 
to  play  with  her  toys  on  a  Fast-day,  what  she  had  done 
was  nothing  to  cry  about.  I  think,  my  reader,  tiiat,  even 
if  you  were  a  Scotch  minister,  you  would  appear  with 
considerable  confidence  before  your  Judge,  if  you  had 
never  done  worse  tiian  failed  to  observe  a  Scotch  Fast- 
day  with  the  Covenanting  austerity. 

But  when  one  looks  back  and  looks  round  and  tries  to 
reckon  up  the  sorrows  of  cliildhood  arising  from  parental 
folly,  one  feels  that  the  task  is  endless.  There  are  parents 
who  will  not  suffer  their  children  to  go  to  the  little  feasts 
which  children  occasionally  have,  eitlier  on  that  wicked 
principle  that  all  enjoyment  is  sinful,  or  because  the  chil- 
dren have  recently  committed  some  small  offence,  which  is 
to  be  thus  punished.  There  are  parents  who  take  pleas- 
ure in  informing  strangers,  in  their  children's  presence, 
about  their  children's  faults,  to  the  extreme  bitterness  of 
the  children's  hearts.  Tiiere  are  parents  who  will  not 
allow  their  children  to  be  taught  dancing,  regarding  danc- 
ing as  sinful.  The  result  is,  that  the  children  are  awkward 
and  unlike  other  children  ;  and  when  they  are  suffered  to 
spend  an  evening  among  a  number  of  companions  who 
have  all  learned  dancing,  tlicy  siifU'r  u  kc^en  mortification 
which  older  people  ought  to  be  able  to  understand.  Then 
you  will  find  parents,  possessing  ample  means,  who  will 
not  dress  their  children  like  others,  but  send  them  out  in 
very  shabby  garments.  Few  things  cause  a  more  painful 
sense  of  humiliation  to  a  child.  It  is  a  sad  sight  to  see  a 
little  fellow  hiding  round  the  corner  when  some  one  passes 
who  is  likely  to  recognize  him,  afraid   to  go  through  the 


CONCERNING   THE  SORROWS   OF   CHILDHOOD.     269 

decent  streets,  and  creeping  out  of  sight  by  back-ways. 
We  have  all  seen  that.  We  have  all  sympathized  heartily 
with  the  reduced  widow  who  has  it  not  in  her  power  tc 
dress  her  boy  better  ;  and  we  have  all  felt  lively  indigna- 
tion at  the  parents  who  had  the  [)Ower  to  attire  their  chil- 
dren becomingly,  but  whose  heartless  parsimony  made  the 
little  things  go  about  under  a  constant  sense  of  painful 
degradation. 

An  extremely  wicked  way  of  punishing  children  is  by 
shutting  them  up  in  a  dark  place.  Darkness  is  naturally 
fearful  to  human  beings,  and  the  stupid  ghost-stories  of 
many  nurses  make  it  especiall}'  fearful  to  a  child.  It  is 
a  stupid  and  wicked  thing  to  send  a  child  on  an  errand  in 
a  dark  night.  I  do  not  remember  passing  through  a 
greater  trial  in  my  youth  than  once  walking  three  miles 
alone  (it  was  not  going  on  an  errand)  in  the  dark,  along 
a  road  tliickly  shaded  with  trees,  I  was  a  little  fellow  ; 
but  I  got  over  th<;  distance  in  half  an  hour.  Part  of  the 
way  was  along  the  wall  of  a  church-yard,  one  of  those 
giiastly,  weedy,  neglected,  accursed-looking  spots  where 
stupidity  has  done  what  it  can  to  add  circumstances  of 
disgust  and  horror  to  the  Christian's  long  sleep.  Nobody 
ever  supposed  that  this  walk  was  a  trial  to  a  boy  of  twelve 
years  old  :  so  little  are  the  thoughts  of  children  under- 
stood. And  children  are  reticent :  I  am  telling  now  about 
that  dismal  walk  for  the  very  first  time.  And  in  the  ill- 
nesses of  childhood,  children  sometimes  get  very  close 
and  real  views  of  death.  I  remcml^er,  when  I  was  nine 
years  old,  how  every  evening,  when  I  lay  down  to  sleep, 
T  used  for  about  a  year  to  picture  myself  lying  dead,  till 
I  felt  as  though  the  coffin  were  closing  round  me.  I  used 
to  read  at  that  period,  with  a  curious  feeling  of  fascina- 
tion, Blair's  poem,  "The  Grave."     But  I  never  dreamed 


270     CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD. 

of  telling  aiiyl)ody  about  these  thought-;.  I  believe  that 
thoiiglitl'ul  ciiildn'M  keep  most  of  their  thoughts  to  them- 
selves, and  in  respect  of  the  things  of  which  they  think 
most  are  as  profoundly  alone  as  the  Ancient  Mariner  in 
the  Pacific.  I  have  heard  of  a  parent,  an  important  mem- 
ber of  a  very  strait  sect  of  the  Pharisees,  whose  child, 
when  dying,  begged  to  be  burled  not  in  a  certain  foul  old 
hideous  church-yard,  but  in  a  certain  cheerful  cemetery. 
This  request  the  poor  little  creature  made  with  all  the 
energy  of  terror  and  despair.  But  the  strait  Pharisee 
refused  the  dying  request,  and  pointed  out,  with  polemi- 
cal bitterness,  to  the  child,  that  he  must  be  very  wicked 
indeed  to  care  at  such  a  time  where  he  was  to  be  buried, 
or  what  might  be  done  with  his  body  after  death.  How 
I  should  enjoy  the  spectacle  of  that  unnatural,  heartless, 
stupid  wretch  tarred  and  feathered  !  The  dying  child 
was  caring  for  a  thing  about  which  Shakespeare  cared  ; 
and  it  was  not  in  mere  human  weakness,  but  "  by  faith," 
that  "  Joseph,  when  he  was  a-dying,  gave  commandment 
concerning  his  bones." 

I  believe  that  real  depression  of  spirits,  usually  the  sad 
heritage  of  after-years,  is  often  felt  in  very  early  youth. 
It  sometimes  comes  of  the  child's  belief  that  he  must  be 
very  bad,  because  he  is  so  frequently  told  that  he  is  so. 
It  sometimes  comes  of  the  child's  fears,  early  felt,  as  to 
what  is  to  become  of  him.  His  parents,  possibly,  with 
the  good  sense  and  kind  feeling  which  distinguish  various 
parents,  have  taken  pains  to  drive  it  into  the  child,  that, 
if  his  father  should  die,  he  will  certainly  starve,  and  may 
very  probably  have  to  become  a  wandering  beggar.  And 
these  sayings  have  sunk  deep  into  the  little  heart.  I  re- 
member how  a  friend  told  me  that  his  constant  wonder 
when  he  was  twelve  oi'  thirteen  years  old,  was  this :  If 


CONCERNING   THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.      271 

life  was  such  a  burden  already,  and  so  miserable  to  look 
back  upon,  how  could  he  ever  bear  it  when  he  had  grown 
older  ? 

But  now,  ray  reader,  I  am  going  to  stop.  I  have  a 
great  deal  more  marked  down  to  say,  but  the  subject  is 
growing  so  thoroughly  distressing  to  me,  as  I  go  on,  that 
I  shall  go  on  no  f'ai'ther.  It  would  make  me  sour  and 
wretched  for  the  next  week,  if  I  were  to  state  and  illus- 
trate the  varied  sorrows  of  childhood  of  which  I  intended 
yet  to  speak :  and  if  I  were  to  talk  out  my  heart  to  you 
about  the  p(;ople  who  cause  these,  I  fear  my  character  for 
good-nature  would  be  gone  with  you  for  ever.  "  This 
genial  writer,"  as  the  newspapers  call  me,  would  show  but 
little  geniality  :  I  am  aware,  indeed,  that  I  have  already 
been  writing  in  a  style  which,  to  say  the  least,  is  snap- 
pish. So  I  shall  say  nothing  of  the  first  death  that  comes 
in  the  family  in  our  childish  days,  —  its  hurry,  its  confu- 
sion, its  awe-struck  mystery,  its  wonderfully  vivid  recall- 
ing of  the  words  and  looks  of  the  dead  ;  nor  of  the  terri- 
ble trial  to  a  little  child  of  being  sent  away  from  home  to 
school,  —  the  heart-sickness  and  the  weary  counting  of 
the  weeks  and  days  before  the  time  of  returning  home 
again.  But  let  me  say  to  every  reader  who  has  it  in  his 
power  directly  or  indirectly  to  do  so,  Oh,  do  what  you  can 
to  make  children  happy  !  oh,  seek  to  give  that  great  en- 
during blessing  of  a  happy  youth  !  Whatever  after-liie 
may  prove,  let  there  be  something  bright  to  look  back 
upon  in  the  horizon  of  their  early  time!  You  may  sour 
the  human  spirit  forever,  by  cruelty  and  injustice  in  youth. 
There  is  a  past  sutFering  which  exalts  and  purifies  ;  but 
this  leaves  only  an  evil  result:  it  darkens  all  the  world, 
And  all  our  views  of  it.     Let  us  try  to  make  every  little 


272      CONCERNING  THE  SORROWS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

child  happy.     The  most  selfish  parent  might  try  to  please 
H  little  child,  if  it  were  only  to  see  the  Iresh  expressioa 
of  unblunted  feeling,  and  a  liveliness  of  pleasurable  emo- 
tion which  ill  after-years  we  shall  never  know.     I  do  not 
believe  a  great  English  barrister  is  so  happy  when  he  has 
the  Great  Seal  committed  to  him  as  two  little  and  rather 
ragged  urchins  whom  1  saw  this  very  afternoon.     I  was 
walking  along  a  country-road,  and  overtook  them.     They 
were  about  five  years  old.     1  walked  slower,  and  talked 
to  them  ibr  a  i'ttw  minutes,  and  found  that  they  were  good 
boys,  and  went  to  school  every  day.     Then  1  produced 
two  coins  of  the  copper  coinage  of  JJriiain  :  one  a  large 
jienny  of  ancient  days,  another  a  small  penny  of  the  pres- 
ent age.     "  There  is  a  i)enny  for  each  of  you,"  I  said, 
with   some  solemnity  :  "  one   is  large,  you  see,  and  the 
other  small  ;  but  they  are  each  worth  exactly  the  same. 
Go  and  get  something  good."     I  wisii  yuu  had  seen  them 
go  otFl     It  is  a  cheap  and  easy  thing  to  make  a  little 
heart  happy.     May  this  hand  never  write  another  essay 
if  it  ever  wilfully  miss  the  chance  of  doing  so  !     It  is  all 
quite  right  in  after-years  to  be  careworn  and  sad.     AVe 
understand  these  matters  ourselves.     Let  others  bear  the 
burden  which  we  ourselves  bear,  and  whicli  is  doubtless 
good  for  us.     But  the  poor  little  things  !     I  can  enter  in- 
to the  feeling  of  a  kind-hearted  man  who  told  me  tha^ 
he  never  could  look  at  a  number  of  little  children  but  the 
tears  came  into  his  eyes.     How  much  these;  young  crea- 
nres  have  to  bear  yet !     I  think  you  can,  as  you  look  at 
fliein,  in  some  degree  understand  and  sympathize   with 
the  Redeemer,  who,  when  he  "  saw  a  great  multitude, 
was  moved  with  compassion  toward  them!"     Ah,  you 
smooth     little    face,    (you    may    think,)    I     know    whaf 
years  will  make  of  you.  if  t'>ey  find  you  in  this  world  ! 


CON(^ERNING   THE  SORROWS   OF  CHILDHOOD.      273 

Aiixi  you,  light   little  heart,  will    know  your  weight  of 
care  ! 

And  I  remember,  as  I  write  these  concluding  lines, 
who  they  were  that  the  Best  and  Kindest  this  world  ever 
saw  hked  to  have  near  Hira  ;  and  what  the  reason  was 
He  gave  why  He  felt  most  in  His  element  when  they 
were  by  His  side.  He  wislied  to  have  little  children 
roinid  Him,  and  would  not  have  them  chidden  away  ; 
and  this  because  there  was  something  about  them  that 
reminded  Him  of  the  Place  from  which  He  came.  He 
liked  the  little  faces  and  the  little  voices,  —  He  to  whom 
the  wisest  are  in  understanding  as  children.  And  often- 
times, I  believe,  these  little  ones  still  do  His  work. 
Oftentimes,  I  believe,  when  the  worn  man  is  led  to  Him 
in  childlike  confidence,  it  is  by  the  hand  of  a  little  child. 


18 


.^imMr 


CHAPTER   X. 


THE   ORGAN   QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND.i 


j^'^.f^  EPUBLTCANS  are  born,  not  ma.le,"  says 
4>  the  lively  author  of  KaJooJah  ;  and  so,  we 
•^  have  lonn^  held,  are  true-blue  Presbyte- 
5:<j)  rians.  A  certain  preponderance  of  the 
sterner  elements,  a  certain  lack  of  capacity  of  emotion, 
and  disregard  of  the  influence  of  associations,  —  in  brief, 
a  certain  hardness  of  cliaracfer  to  be  found  only  in 
Scotland,  is  needed  to  make  your  out-and-out  follower 
of  John  Knox.  The  great  mass  of  the  educated  mem- 
bers of  the  Cluirch  of  vScotlaiid  iiave  no  pretension  to 
the  name  of  true-blue  Presbyterians:  Balfour  of  Bur- 
ley  would  liave  scouted  them  ;  under  the  insidious  in- 
fluence of  greater  enlighteimient  and  more  rapid  com- 
munication, they  have  in  many  respects  approximated 
sadly  to  "black  prelacy."  Dr.  Candlish's  book  reminds 
us  that  out-and-out  Presbyterians  are  still  to  be  found 
in  tiie  northern  |>art  of  this  island.  In  arguing  wit'- 
such,  we  feel  a  |)eculiar  diincidty.  "We  iiave  no  ground 
in  common.  Tliin^rs  wliicli  appear  to  us  as  self-evi- 
dent axioms,  thi-y  fl.itlv  deny.      For  instance,  it  appears 

1  77(6  Orr/nii  Question:  Stfitcynenis  bij  Dr.  liilcJiie  and  Dr.  Portecui 
for  ami  a<j(iinst  the  use  of  the  Orynn  in  Public  Worship,  in  the  Proceed- 
ings of  the  Presbijlery  if  Gl'is'/ow,  1807-8.  With  an  introductory  No- 
tice, by  Robert  S.  Candlish,  D.U.  Edinburgh.     185G. 


THE  ORGAN   QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND.  275 

tc  US  just  as  plain  as  that  two  and  two  make  four,  that  a 
church  should  be  something  essentially  different  in  ap- 
pearance from  an  ordinary  dwelling ;  that  there  is  a  pecu- 
liar sanctity  about  the  house  of  God  ;  that  if  it  be  fit  to 
pay  some  respect  to  the  birthday  of  tlie  Queen,  it  cannot 
be  wrong  to  pay  a  greater  to  the  birthday  of  the  Re- 
deemer;  that  the  worship  of  God  should  be  made  as 
solemn  in  itself  as  possible,  and  as  likely  as  possible  to 
impress  the  hearts  oi'  (he  worshippers  ;  that  if  music  is 
employed  in  the  worship  of  God,  it  should  be  the  best 
music  to  be  had;  and  that  if  there  be  a  noble  instrument 
especially  adapted  to  the  performance  of  sacred  music, 
with  something  in  its  very  tones  that  awes  the  heart  and 
wakens  devotional  feeling,  that  is  beyond  all  question 
the  instrument  to  have  in  our  churches.  Now  all  tiiis  the 
true-blue  Presbyterian  at  once  denies.  He  holds  that  all 
that  is  required  of  a  church  is  protection  fi-om  the  weather, 
with  seat-room,  and,  perhaps,  ventilation  ;  he  denies  that 
any  solemnized  feeling  is  produced  by  noble  architecture, 
or  that  the  Gothic;  vault  is  fitter  for  a  fhurch  than  ibr  a 
factory  ;  he  walks  into  church  with  his  hat  on  to  show  he 
does  not  care  for  bricks  and  mortar ;  he  taboos  Christ- 
mas-day, with  all  its  gentle  and  gracious  remembrances ; 
he  maintains  that  the  barest  of  all  worship  is  likeliest  to 
be  true  spiritual  service  ;  he  holds  that  there  is  some- 
thing essentially  evil  and  sinful  in  the  use  of  an  organ  in 
church  ;  that  the  organ  is  "  a  porlion  of  tlie  trumpery  which 
ignorance  and  superstition  had  foisted  into  tlie  house  of 
God  ;"  that  to  introduce  one  is  to  "  convert  a  church  into 
a  concert-room,"  and  "to  return  back  to  Judaism  ;"  and 
that  "the  use  of  instrumental  music  in  tlie  worship  of 
God  is  neither  lawful,  nor  expedient,  nor  edifying."  * 
1   T/i".  Organ  Question,  pp.  108,  125,  128,  &c 


270  THE  ORGAN   QUESTION   IN  SCOTLAND. 

We  confess  that  we  do  not  know  how  to  argue  with 
men  who  hone.-tly  hol.l  these  views.  The  things  which 
ihey  deny  appear  to  in  ^o  perfectly  plain  already,  that  no 
argument  can  inak(!  them  phiiner.  If  any  man  say  to  us, 
"I  don't  feel  in  the  least  solemnized  by  the  noble  cathe- 
(li-al  and  the  pealing  antliem,"  all  we  can  reply  is  simply, 
"Then  vou  are  ditierent  from  human  beings  in  general  ;* 
but  it  is  useless  to  argue  witli  him.  If  you  argue  a  thesis 
at  all,  you  can  argue  it  only  from  things  less  liable  to  dis- 
pute than  itself;  and  in  the  case  of  all  these  matters 
attached  to  Presbytery,  though  not  forming  part  of  its 
essence,  this  is  impossible.  Whenever  we  have  had  an 
argument  with  an  old  impracticable  Presbyterian,  we 
have  left  off  with  tlie  feeling  that  some  people  are  born 
Presbyterians ;  and  if  so,  there  is  no  use  in  talking  to 
tiiem. 

But  all  these  notions  to  which  allusion  has  been  made, 
are  attached  to  Presl)ytery  by  vulgar  prejudice;  they 
form  no  part  of  its  essence,  and  enlightened  Presbyte- 
rians now-a-days  are  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact.  There 
is  no  earthly  connection  in  the  nature  of  things  between 
Presbyterian  Church-govermTient  and  flat-roolied  meeting- 
houses, the  abolition  of  the  seasons  of  the  Christian  year, 
a  bare  and  l)ald  ritual,  a  vile  "  precentor"  howling  out  of 
all  tune,  and  a  congregation  joinins  as  musically  as  the 
frogs  in  Aristoi)lianes.  The  educated  classes  in  Scotland 
liave  for  the  most  part  come  to  see  this,  and  in  Edinburgh 
and  Gla-gow,  even  among  the  Dissenters,  we  find  church- 
like  places  of  wor.-liip,  decent  singing,  and  the  entire  ser- 
vice conducte<l  witli  propriety.  And  one  of  the  marked 
signs  of  vanishing  prejudice  is,  that  a  general  wish  is 
springing  up  for  the  introduction  of  that  noble  instru- 
ment, so  adapted  to  church-music,  the  organ.       Things 


THE  ORGAN  QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND  277 

nave  even  gone  so  far  that  the  principal  ecclesiastical 
court  of  a  considerable  Scotch  dissenting  denomination, 
has  left  it  to  be  decided  by  each  congregation  for  itself, 
whether  it  will  have  an  organ  or  not.  And  several  dis- 
senting ministers  of  respectable  standing  and  undoubted 
Presbyterianism,  are  pushing  the  matter  strongly. 

We  should  have  fancied  that  men  of  sense  in  North 
Britain  would  have  been  pleased  to  find  that  there  is  a 
prospect  of  the  organ  being  generally  introduced:  and 
this  upon  the  broad  ground  that  church-music  would  thus 
be  made  more  solemn,  more  wortliy  of  God's  worship, 
more  likely  to  awaken  devotional  feeling.  We  should 
have  fancied  that  there  was  no  need  for  special  pleading 
on  the  part  of  the  advocates  of  the  organ,  and  assuredly 
no  room  for  lengthened  argument  on  the  part  of  its  oppo- 
nents. The  entire  argument,  we  think,  may  be  summed 
up  thus :  Whatever  makes  church-music  more  solemn 
and  solemnizing  is  good  ;  the  organ  does  this  :  therefore, 
let  us  have  the  organ.  Jf  a  man  denies  our  first  proposi- 
tion, he  is  a  p(!rsoii  who  cannot  be  reasoned  with.  If  he 
denies  the  second,  he  has  no  musical  taste.  If  he  admits 
both,  yet  denies  the  conclusion,  then  he  is  either  preju- 
diced or  yielding  to  prejudice.  And  so  the  discussion 
ends.  And  though  we  do  not  by  any  means  hold  that  the 
majority  is  necessarily  right,  still  in  this  world  we  have, 
after  all,  no  further  appeal  than  to  the  mass  of  educated 
men,  and  they  have  decided  "  the  organ  question,"  We 
believe  that  the  Scotch  Church  and  its  offshoots  are  the 
only  Christian  sects  that  tiiboo  the  organ. 

We  should  not  have  been  surprised  to  find  opposition 
to  the  organ  on  the  part  of  the  unreasoning  crowd,  who 
regard  it  as  a  rag  of  Popery,  and  whose  hatred  of  every- 
thing prelatical  is  quite  wonderful.     But  it  startles  us  to 


278  TIIK  ORGAN   QUESTION   IN   SCOTLAND. 

find  reasonable  and  educated  Scotchmen  maintaining  that 
an  organ  i.s  an  idol,  and  tiiat  its  u>e  is  not  only  inexpe- 
dient, but  absolutt-ly  sinful  and  forbidden.  We  have  read 
with  considerable  interest,  and  with  great  surprise.  Dr. 
Candlisli's  ])ublication  on  The  Organ  Question,  elicited 
by  "  tiie  alaiiu  he  feels  at  certain  recent  movements  on 
behalf  of  instrumental  music  in  Presbyterian  worship.' 
(p.  5.)  His  j)art  in  it  is  confined  to  an  introductory  essay, 
reflecting  little  credit  upon  either  his  logic  or  his  taste  : 
and  instead  of  arguing  the  matter  for  himself,  he  prefers 
to  reproduce  what  he  regards  as  a  complete  discussion  of 
tha  subject,  in  two  documents,  written  nearly  half  a  cen- 
tury since.  The  circumstances  under  which  these  were 
written  are  as  follows  :  — 

In  the  centre  of  a  considerable  square,  opening  out  of 
the  Salt  Market  of  Glasgow  ( indissolubly  associated  with 
the  memory  of  Bailie  Nicol  Jarvie  and  Rob  Roy),  there 
stands  the  elegant  church  of  St.  Andrew.  It  is  a,  facsim- 
ile,on  a  much  reduced  scale,  of  St.  INIartin's-in-the-fields, 
at  Charing  Cross.  Fifty  years  since,  Dr.  Ritchie,  the  in- 
cumbent of  that  church,  in  accordance  with  the  wish  of 
his  entire  congregation,  one  of  the  most  intelligent  in 
Scotknd,  introduced  an  organ.  On  Sunday,  the  23d  of 
August,  1807,  the  sole  organ  which  has  been  used  since 
the  Reformation  in  any  Scotch  church  in  Scotland,^  was 
used  for  the  first  and  last  time.  Extreme  horror  was 
excited  among  the  ultra-Presbyterians.  Dr.  Ritchie  was 
forthwith  pulled  up  by  the  Presbytery  of  Glasgow,  and 

1  Organs  are  not  unfrequeiitly  found  in  Scotch  churches  out  of  Scot- 
Imul.  The  Scotch  cliurclies  maintained  by  the  Kast  India  Company  at 
Calcutta,  Madras,  and  Bombay,  are  provided  with  orj^ans,  whicli  are 
regularly  used.  The  ca.se  is  the  same  with  several  of  the  Scotch 
churches  in  tlie  West  Indies,  and  with  one  long  established  at  Amster- 
dam. 


THE  ORGAN   QUESTION   IN   SCOTLAND.  279 

getting  iVightened  at  his  own  audacity,  he  declared  at 
its  meeting  '*  that  he  would  not  again  use  an  organ  in 
the  public  worship  of  God  without  the  authority  of  the 
Church."  Upon  this  the  Presbytery  passed  a  resolution 
to  the  effect  "  That  the  Presbytery  are  of  opinion  that 
the  use  of  the  organ  in  ihe  public,  worship  of  God,  is 
contrary  to  the  law  of  tiie  land,  and  to  the  law  and  con- 
Btitution  of  our  Established  Church,  and  therefore  pro- 
hibit it  in  all  the  chui-clies  and  chapels  within  their 
bounds  ;  and  with  respect  to  Dr.  Ritchie's  conduct  in  this 
matter,  they  are  satisfied  with  his  declaration."  Dr. 
Ritchie  gave  in  a  paper  containing  his  reasons  of  dissent; 
and  a  committee  of  the  Presbytery  prepared  a  reply  to 
it.  These  two  papers  form  the  substance  of  the  book  now 
sent  forth  with  Dr.  Candlish's  name. 

The  commotion  excited  in  Scotland  by  the  introduction 
of  the  organ  was  indescribable.  Dr.  Ritchie  was  accused 
of  "  the  monstrous  crime  of  worshijjping  God  by  images, 
of  violating  the  articles  of  the  Union,  of  demolishing  the 
barriers  for  the  security  of  our  religion,  of  committing  a 
deed  of  perjury  to  ordination  vows."  (p.  Gl.)  A  howl  of 
execration  was  directed  against  the  man  who  had  exhibit- 
ed the  flagrant  insolence  of  introducing  what  John  Knox 
had  tastefully  described  as  a  "  ki-t  fu'  o'  whistles."  Pamph- 
lets and  caricatures  were  numerous.  Dr.  Candlish  thinks 
it  worth  while  to  preserve  the  remembrance  of  a  picture 
"  which  represents  Dr.  Ritchie,  who  was  about  the  time 
of  these  proceedings  translated  to  Edinburgh,  travelling 
as  a  street  musician,  with  a  barrel  organ  stra[)ped  across 
his  shoulder,  and  solacing  himself  with  the  good  old  tune, 
"I'll  gang  nae  mair  to  yon  toun."  (]).  28.)  Wit  and  in- 
telligence appear  to  have  been  tolerably  equal  in  Scotland 
in  those  days. 


280  THE  ORGAN   QUESTION  IN  SCOTLAND. 

Dr.  Candli.-^h's  own  sf-ntiments  are  plainly  enougli 
expressed.  He  thinks  that  "  cogent  arguments  can  be 
urged,  both  from  reason  and  Scripture,  against  the  prac- 
tice of  using  the  organ."  (p.  11.)  He  ho[)es  tliat  his  pres- 
ent publication  '•  will  make  many  vviio  have  been  almost 
led  away  by  the  plausibilities  that  are  so  easily  got  up  oq 
the  side  of  organ-,  pause  before  they  lend  themselves  to 
what  may  cause  a  most  perilous  agitation."  (p.  31).  This 
is  fair  enough,  because  there  may  be  prejudices  in  tlie 
mass  of  the  Scotch  people  so  strong  that  it  would  be 
inexpedient  to  shock  them  by  introducing  instrumental 
music.  But  Dr.  Candlish  goes  on,  in  words  which  be- 
Avilder  us,  to  give  his  opinion  on  the  essential  merits  of 
the  question :  — 

It  is  not  that  I  am  afraid  of  a  controversy  on  this  subject,  or  of  its 
issue,  so  far  as  the  merits  of  the  question  are  concerned.  I  believe  it  is 
a  question  whicli  touches  some  of  the  higliest  and  deepest  points  of 
Christian  theology.  Is  the  temple  destroyed,  is  the  temple  worship 
wholly  superseded  ?  Iliive  we,  or  have  we  not,  priests  and  sacrifices 
among  us  now?  Does  the  Old  Testament  itself  point  to  anything  but 
the  "  fruit  of  the  lips,"  as  the  peace-offering  or  thank-offering  of 
gospel  times?  Is  there  a  trace  in  the  New  Testament  of  any  other 
mode  of  praise?  For  my  part,  I  am  persuaded  thnt  if  the  organ  be  ad- 
T/tiited,  there  is  no  barrier,  in  principle,  against  the  sacerdotal  system  in 
(dl  its  ftdness,  —  against  the  substitution  again,  in  our  whole  religion,  of 
the  formal  for  the  spiritual,  the  sgiiujoUcal  for  the  real! 

And  then,  remembering  that  this  may  offend  Episcopa- 
lians, Dr.  Candlish  goes  on  offensively  to  say  that  the 
Church  of  England  never  attained  liglit  enough  to  reject 
the  organ,  and  may  therefore  be  permitted  the  use  of  a 
carnal  contrivance  which  the  more  enlightened  Presbyte- 
rians would  be  retrograding  in  taking  up.  A  position  at 
which  the  organ  is  retained,  is  wonderfully  well  for  South- 
rons ;  but  would  be  a  wretched  falling  off  in  the  followers 
of  Cameron  and  Renvvick. 


THE  ORGAN  QUESTION  IN  SCOTLAND.  281 

Dr.  Ritchie  appears  from  his  "  Statement "  to  have 
been  an  enlightened  and  educated  man,  somewhat  in 
advance  of  his  age,  and  wlio  had  miscalculated  the  con- 
sequences of  setting  lip  the  organ.  Tlie  pear  was  not 
ripe ;  it  is  hardly  so  yet,  after  the  lapse  of  fifty  years. 
He  adduces  just  such  arguments  in  favor  of  instrumen- 
tal music,  as  would  present  themselves  to  any  English 
mind,  modified  somewhat  hy  his  knowledge  of  the  preju- 
dices of  the  tribunal  he  addressed.  His  statement  is 
written  with  elegance,  and  tempei-ately  expressed.  He 
sets  out  by  stating  that  the  u-e  of  instrumental  music 
in  worship  has  its  foundation  in  the  best  feelings  of 
human  nature,  prompting  men  to  employ  with  rever- 
ence, according  to  the  means  they  possess,  all  their  pow- 
ers in  expressing  gratitude  to  their  Creator.  This  use 
cannot  be  traced  in  sacred  history  from  the  time  of 
Moses  down  to  that  of  David  :  but  David  not  only  em- 
ployed instrumental  music  himself,  hut  calls '' on  all  na- 
tions, all  the  earth,  to  praise  the  Lord  as  he  did,  with 
psaltery,  with  harp,  with  organ,  with  the  voice  of  a 
psalm."  His  psalms  are  constantly  sung  in  Christian 
worship  ;  "  and  can  it  be  a  sin  to  sing  them,  as  was  done 
by  the  original  composer,  with  the  accompaniment  of  an 
organ  ?  "  Christ  never  found  fault  with  instrumental 
music,  neither  did  Paul  or  John ;  the  latter  indeed  tells 
us  that  he  beheld  in  heaven  "  Harpers  harping  with  their 
liarps."  During  the  earlier  centuries,  the  persecutions 
to  which  Christians  were  exposed  probably  suffered  no 
thought  about  a  matter  not  essential :  but  the  use  of  or- 
gans became  general  in  the  time  of  dawning  light.  At 
the  Reformation  it  was  felt  that  their  use  was  no  essen- 
tial part  of  Popery  ;  and  thus  it  was  retained  by  all  the 
reformed  churches,  those  of  Luther  and  Calvin  alike,  ex- 


282  THE  ORGAN  QUESTION  IN  SCOTLAND. 

cept  the  Church  of  Scotland.  Organs  did  not  find  favor 
in  Scothuid,  because  religious  persecution  had  excited  in 
that  country  a  great  horror  of  whatever  had  been  used  in 
popish  or  prelatical  worship,  as  altars,  crosses,  organs. 
But  although  the  organ  was  a.-sociated  with  Episcopacy, 
there  is  no  necessary  connection  :  — 

And  in  the  use  of  an  organ  in  church  during  public  praise,  I  cannot, 
Ijf  my  life,  after  long  and  serious  attention  to  the  subject,  discover 
even  an  apjjroach  to  any  violation  either  of  the  purity  or  uniformity 
of  our  worship.  For  who  will  or  can  allege  that  an  oigan  is  an  inno- 
vation upon  the  great  object  of  worship?  —  we  ail,  I  trust,  worship  the 
one  God,  through  the  one  Jlediator.  Or  upon  the  subject  of  praise?  — 
for  we  all  sing  the  same  psalms  and  paraphrases  in  the  same  language, 
all  giving  thanks  for  the  same  inercie>.  Or  upon  the  posture  of  the 
worshippers?  —  for  we  all  sit,  as  becomes  Presbyterians.  Or  upon  the 
tunes  sung?  —  for  we  sing  only  such  as  are  in  general  use.  Or  upon 
the  oflicc  of  the  precentor?  —  for  he  still  holds  his  rank,  and  employs 
the  commanding  tones  of  the  organ  for  guiding  the  voices  of  the  people. 
What,  then,  is  it?  It  is  a  help,  a  support  givtui  to  the  precentor's  voice, 
for  enabling  him  more  steadily,  and  with  more  dignity,  to  guide  the 
voice  of  the  congregation,  and  thus  to  preserve  not  only  uniformity, 
but  that  unity  of  voice  which  is  so  i)eciiming  in  the  public  service,  which 
so  plea^ingly  heightens  devout  feelings,  and  prevents  that  discord  which 
so  easily  distracts  the  attention  of  the  worshippers. 

Such  is  an  outline  of  Dr.  Ritchie's  argument.  Our 
readers  will,  we  doubt  not,  be  curious  to  know  what  con- 
siderations, partaking  of  the  nature  of  arj^ument,  can  be 
adduced  against  the  use  of  organs  in  church.  Most  peo- 
[)le,  we  should  think,  would  be  more  curious  to  know  this, 
than  to  have  arguments  in  favor  of  an  u.sage  for  whicji 
common  sense  is  authority  sufficient.  Now,  had  the 
committee  of  the  Glasgow  Presbytery  a.ssigned  their 
true  reason  for  rejecting  the  organ,  it  might  have  been 
very  briefly  set  out :  it  was  sim[)ly  to  be  different  from 
the  Prelatists.  A  true-blue  Presbyterian  does  not  think 
of  discussing  the  fitness  of  any  observance  on  the  ground 


THE   ORGAN  QUESTION   IN   SCOTLAND.  283 

of  its  own  merits.  He  brings  the  matter  to  a  shorter  issue 
—  viz.:  Is  it  used  in  the  I-Cpiscopal  Church  or  is  it  not? 
It"  he  goes  beyond  that,  his  tinal  question  would  be,  What 
did  John  Knox  say  about  it  ?  Bis  inthllibility  is  held  in 
Scotland  much  more  strongly  and  practically  than  the 
Pope's  is  in  Italy.  If  any  man  in  a  Scotch  Church 
Court  should  venture  to  impugn  anything  that  ever  was 
said  by  the  Reformer,  he  would  draw  a  perfect  storm  of 
indignation  upon  his  own  head.  We  repeat,  there  is  no 
doctrine  more  decidedly  held  in  Scotland  than  that  of  the 
infallibility  of  John  Knox.  Perhaps  that  of  the  impec- 
cability of  Calvin  should  be  regarded  as  a  companion 
doctrine.  His  vagaries  as  to  the  Sabbath  preclude  his 
reception  as  infallible.  We  have  seen  a  paper  by  an 
eminent  minister  of  a  Scotch  dissenting  "body,"  whose 
purpose  was  to  prove  that  Calvin  was  right  in  burning 
Servetus.  The  argument,  so  far  as  we  could  make  it 
out,  appeared  to  be  that  Calvin's  doing  so  was  right, 
because  Calvin  did  it.  Of  course,  had  Servetus  burned 
Calvin,  it  would  have  been  quite  a  different  thing. 

As  for  the  reply  to  Dr.  Ritchie's  Statement  (which  was 
drawn  up  by  a  certain  Dr.  Porteou<),  we  shall  at  once 
say  of  it  that  it  appears  to  us  characterized  by  ignorance, 
stupidity,  and  vulgarity,  in  the  very  highest  degree.  Dr. 
Ritchie's  paper  dealt  with  broad  principles  :  this  is  mainly 
employed  in  paltry  personalities  and  misrepresentations. 
Its  style  bristles  with  such  descriptions  of  instrumental 
music  as  "  will-worship,"  "  superstitious  rites,"  "  convert- 
ing a  church  into  a  concert-room,"  "  an  organ  tickling  the 
ear  of  the  audience  "  (the  italics  are  the  writer's  own), 
*'  the  puerile  amusement  of  pipes  and  organs,"  &c.  We 
shall  endeavor  to  pick  out  from  this  very  tedious  lucubra- 
tion whatever  it  contains  in  the  nature  of  argument  ;  and 


284  THE  ORGAN  QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND. 

we  believe  that  our  readers  will  agree  with  us  that  the 
mere  statement  of  the  following  objections  to  the  organ 
is  sutficient  refutation  of  thein.  We  give  our  refer- 
ences, lest  we  should  be  suspected  of  caricaturing  Dr. 
Porteous's  argument:  — 

1.  Instrumental  music  in  tlie  woi-sliip  of  God  is  as 
niucii  part  of  the  Jewi.-h  system  as  circumcision  :  there- 
fore, if  circumcision  be  al)oli.--hed,  so  is  the  organ.  ([)p. 
8G-7.)  Instrumenlal  music  was  essentially  connected 
with  sacrifice  ;  and  as  sacrifice  was  abolished  by  Cin-ist'3 
death,  so  was  instrumental  music  abolished,  (pp.  87-8.) 
The  New  Testament,  by  prescribing  a  new  way  of  wor- 
shipping God,  —  to  wit,  by  singing  psalms,  hymns,  and 
spiritual  songs,  —  is  to  be  understood  as  abolishing  the 
old  way,  by  instrumental  music.  (p.  91.)  St.  Paul, 
far  from  commending  instrumental  music,  speaks  of  it 
with  contemjit  —  If  I  •'  have  not  charity,  I  am  become 
as  sounding  brass  or  a  tinkling  cymbal."  (p.  9G.)  True, 
harps  are  spoken  of  by  St.  John  as  in  heaven  ;  but  St. 
John  was  drawing  on  his  i-ecollection  of  the  Teni])l(i 
service,  and  is  not  to  be  literally  understood,  (pp.  97-8.) 
So  much  for  the  argument  from  Scripture. 

2.  The  Christians  of  tlu^  early  centuries  would  have 
had  organs,  had  it  been  right  to  have  them.  As  they 
had  them  not,  "it  is  evident  that  they  considered  it  im- 
lawf'ul  to  employ  instrumental  music  in  the  worship  of 
God.  Both  Arians  and  orthodox  would  have  regarded 
themselves  as  returning  back  to  Judaism,  if  ihey  had 
permitted  it  in  th(!ir  public  worship."  (p.  108.)  We  are 
surprised  to  find  the  Fathers  quoted  by  a  Presbyterian 
clergyman,  but  in  this  case  they  make  in  favor  of  his 
views.  Justin  Martyr  says,  "  Plain  singing  is  not  child- 
ish,  but  only  the  singing  with   lifeless   organs  :    whence 


niE  ORGAN   QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND.  285 

the  use  of  such  instruments,  and  other  things  fit  for  chil- 
dren, is  laid  aside."  (pp.  109-10.)  Basil  speaks  of  or- 
gans as  "  tlie  inventions  of  Jubal.  of  tlie  race  of  Cain.'* 
(p.  111.)  Chrysostora  says  that  instrumental  music 
"  was  only  permitted  to  the  Jews  for  the  imbecility  and 
<rros>:ness  of  their  souls  :  but  now,  instead  of  organs, 
Christians  must  use  tiie  body  to  praise  God."  (p.  112.) 
Jerome  and  Augustine  speak  in  a  similar  strain.  Thomaa 
Aquinas,  in  the  Schoolman  age,  says,  "  In  the  old  law, 
God  was  praised  both  with  musical  instruments  and 
human  voices.  But  the  Church  does  not  use  musical 
instruments  to  praise  God,  lest  she  should  seem  to  ju- 
daize."  (p.  115).  And  we  are  told,  on  the  authority  of 
Eckhard,  that  Luther  (among  other  fooli-h  things  which 
he  said)  said  that  '■'organs  were  among  the  ensigns  of 
Baal!"  (p.  119.)  There  is  no  doubt  that  Calvin  de- 
clared that  "  Instrumental  music  is  not  fitter  to  be  adopt- 
ed into  the  public  worship  of  the  Christian  Cliurch  than 
the  incense,  the  candlesticks,  and  the  other  shadows  of 
the  Mosaic  law."  (p.  121.)  Our  reply  to  all  this  is,  that 
the  Fathers,  Schoohnen,  and  Reformers,  might  fall  into 
error :  if  the  question  is  to  be  decided  by  authority,  we 
could  adduei!  a  thousand  auihoriiies  in  favor  of  the  organ 
for  every  one  against  it ;  these  eminent  men  had  no  other 
grounds  for  forming  their  oi)ini()n  ihau  are  i>alent  to  us, 
and  it  seems  manifest  to  common  sense  that  neither  in 
reason  nor  Scri[)tiire  are  there  any  g-ounds  to  support 
the  opinions  they  express.  We  appeal  to  the  common 
sense  of  mankind,  even  from  the  judgment  of  Chrj-sos- 
lom,  Aquinas.  I.uther,  and  Calvin. 

3.  Dr.  Porteous's  next  argument  against  the  organ  is, 
that  the  Fathers  of  the  Scotch  Cliurch  "  regard(;d  instru- 
mental music  as  the  offspring  of  Judaism,  and  abhorred 


286  THE  ORGAN  QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND. 

it  a.^  a  relic  of  Popory,  and  too  intimately  eonnected  with 
that  |)ielatic  form  which  our  forefathers  never  could  en- 
dure." (p.  132.)  "  It  has  been  allowed  by  authors,  for- 
eign and  domestic,  that  the  genius  of  the  Scotch  peoide 
is  much  more  musical  than  that  either  of  the  English, 
the  Dutch,  or  the  French.  But  the  people  of  Scotland 
abhor  the  blending  of  the  inventions  of  man  with  the 
worship  of  God.  They  conceive  instrumental  music  in 
consistent  witli  th(!  purity  of  a  New  Testament  Church." 
(p.  134.)  Then  "  Knox  and  Melville,  Rutherford  and 
Henderson,  offer  not  one  word  in  bciialf  of  the  organ. 
They  allow  it  to  j)erish  unnoticed,  as  a  portion  of  that 
trumpery  which  ignorance  and  superstition  had  foisted 
into  the  house  of  God."  (p.  140.)  "The  fixed,  determined 
opposition  to  instrumental  music  "  among  the  Scotch  Re- 
formers "  ariseth  from  legal,  political,  moral,  and  Scrip- 
tural grounds."  (p.  140.)  We  admit  at  once  that  the 
founders  of  the  Scotch  Cimrch  had  an  inveterate  dislike 
for  the  oigan  ;  but  as  they  give  us  no  reason  for  their 
dislike,  except  the  fact  that  tlie  organ  had  been  employed 
in  prelatic  worship,  and  the  utterly  groundless  assertion 
tliat  instrumenial  music  was  a  purely  Jewish  observance, 
we  cannot  regard  their  dislike  otherwise  than  as  an  ir- 
rational prejudice.  The  argument  from  Knox's  opinion 
may  be  a  very  good  one  where  men  believe  the  infalli- 
bility of  Knox,  but  with  us  it  has  no  weight  whatever. 
We  regard  ourselves  quite  as  competent  to  form  an 
opinion  in  this  matter  as  Knox ;  and  the  argument 
from  mere  authority  will  not  do  in  a  case  where  the 
authorities  quoted  have  no  s[)ecial  weight,  and  are  in 
a  minority  of  one  to  a  hundred. 

4.  The  next  argument  is  addressed  exclusive  to  per- 
sons belontring  to  tlic  Church  of  Scotland.     At  the  Re- 


THE  ORGAN  QUESTION   IN   SCOTLAND.  287 

volution,  "  Prelacy  was  for  ever  abolished  in  Scotland  ; " 
and  the  organ  is  })art  of  Prelacy.  (|)p.  144—5.)  The 
people,  at  all  events,  regarded  it  as  such.  (p.  145.) 
And  when  U  was  stipulated  at  the  union  of  the  two 
kingdoms,  that  the  established  wor.-hip  should  continue, 
it  was  understood  on,  all  hands  tliat  this  stipulation  ex- 
cluded instrumental  music,  (pp.  150-1  Gl.)  Every  cler* 
gyman  at  his  ordination  subscribes  a  formula,  in  which 
he  '•  sincerely  owns  the  purity  of  wor.-hip  presently  au- 
thorized and  practised  in  this  Church,  and  that  he  will 
constantly  adhere  to  the  same  ;  and  that  he  will  neither 
directly  nor  indirectly  endeavor  the  prejudice  and  sub- 
version thereof."  (p.  102.)  But  this  purity  of  worship 
is  destroyed  by  introducing  an  organ  ;  for  "  by  blending 
instrumental  music  with  the  human  voice,  the  simple 
melody  of  our  forefathers  becomes  immediately  changed 
into  a  medley,  composed  of  animate  and  inanimate  ob- 
jects." (p.  165.) 

We  do  not  think  any  comment  is  needful  uj/on  all  this. 
We  give  another  passage,  which  we  presume  is  intended 
for  an  argument :  — 

Man  being  a  reasonable  creature,  and  a  reasonable  service  being  de- 
manded from  iiim  by  God,  that  reasonable  service  cannot  so  properly 
be  perl'ormed  by  man  as  when  he  usetli  his  voice  alone.  This  is  the 
vehicle  which  God  hath  given  him  to  convey  to  his  Maker  the  emo- 
tions of  his  soul.  JIusical  instruments  may  indeed  tickle  the  ear  and 
please  the  fancy  of  fallen  man.  But  is  God  to  be  likened  lo  fallen 
man?  Organs  are  the  mere  invention  of  man,  played  often  by  hire- 
lings, who,  while  they  modulate  certain  sounds,  may  possess  a  hetrt 
cold  and  hard  as  the  nether  mill-stone.  You  may,  if  you  plea.«e,  style 
sudi  nuisic  the  will-wor-^hip  of  the  organist;  but  j-ou  surely  canrot,  ia 
common  sense,  denominate  it  the  praise  of  devout  worehippers,  singing 
with  grace,  and  making  melody  to  the  Lord  in  the  heart. 

The  only  passage  in  Dr.  Porteous's  argument  which 
appears   to   us    to   partake   of  the   nature  of  discussion 


288  THE  ORGAN  QUESTION   IN  SCOTLAND. 

on   the   merits   of    the    question,    is    the    following    vul- 
garity :  — 

Your  committee  have  heard  your  amateurs  and  dilettanti  assert  that 
Hieir  nerves  have  been  completely  overcome  with  the  powerful  tones 
of  the  organ,  and  the  sublime  crash  of  instrumental  music  in  the  ora- 
torios of  Handel.  Your  committee  are  willing  to  allow  this  musical 
elfect;  but  they  believe,  at  the  same  time,  that  all  the  musical  instru- 
ments that  ever  were  used  can  never  produce  upon  the  devout  and 
coiitemplative  mind  that  sublime  and  pathetic  effect  whicli  the  well 
regulated  voice  of  8000  children  produced,  when  singing  the  praises 
of  God  in  the  cathedral  of  St.  I'aul's,  upon  the  recovery  of  our  good 
old  religious  king.  Away,  then,  with  the  cant  of  an  organ's  being  so 
vronderfully  calculated  to  increase  the  devotion  of  Christians!  Your 
committee  have  sometimes  had  an  opportunity  of  listening  to  instru- 
mental music,  in  what  is  st3'led  cathedral  worship.  It  might  for  a 
little  time  please  and  surprise  by  its  novelty;  the  etTcct,  however,  was 
very  transitory,  and  sometimes  produced  ideas  in  the  mind  very  dif- 
ferent from  devotion.  Your  committee  believe  that  when  the  ])rai.se8 
of  God  are  sung  by  every  individual,  even  of  an  unlettered  countr}' 
congregati'n,  the  effect  is  much  more  noble,  and  much  more  salutary 
to  the  mind  of  a  Christian  audience,  than  all  the  lofty  artificial  strains 
of  an  organ,  extracted  by  a  hired  organist,  and  accompanied  by  a  con- 
fused noise  of  many  voices,  taught  at  great  expense  to  chant  over  what 
their  hearts  neither  feel,  nor  their  heads  understand. 

Now,  as  it  appe;irs  to  us,  this  passage  is  the  only  one 
in  Dr.  Purlcous's  long  treatise  which  touches  the  merits 
of  "the  organ  question."  Here  he  fairly  joins  is^ue  with 
the  supporters  of  the  organ  on  the  question  whether  the 
use  of  that  instrument  does  or  does  not  render  God's 
praise  more  solemn  and  affecting.  He  maintains  thai 
it  does  not.  On  the  strongest  of  all  evidence,  our  own 
experience,  we  maintain  that  it  does.  And  we  have  nc 
higher  court  to  ajtpeal  to.  We  are  just  hrought  back  to 
(he  princi[)le  with  which  we  set  out  —  the  existence  of 
two  sorts  or  species  of  liinnan  constitution  essentially 
different  by  nature.  Dr.  Porteous  was  a  born  Pres- 
byterian.    We  are  not.     And  we  can  but  comlbrt  our- 


THE  ORGAN   QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND.  28r' 

selves  with  the  belief  that  were  the  educated  population 
of  Christendom  polled,  we  should  be  in  a  majority  of  ten 
thousand  to  one.  We  make  bold  to  say,  that  were  you 
to  poll  the  educated  people  of  Scotland,  we  should  have 
a  hundred  to  one  in  our  favor. 

It  will  amuse  our  readers  to  know  that  this  enlightened 
clergyman,  in  closing  his  argument,  bestows  a  parting  kick 
upon  the  idolatrous  organ,  by  reminding  us  that  we  read 
in  the  Book  of  Job,  that  the  wicked  of  those  days  "  took 
the  timbrel  and  the  harp,  and  rejoiced  at  the  soimd  of  the- 
organ:'  {Job,  ch.  xxi.  v.  14,  15,  p.  188.)  And  when 
Nebuchadnezzar  erected  his  golden  image,  the  signal  for 
its  worship  was  "  the  sound  of  the  cornet,  flute,  harp, 
sackbut,  psaltery,  dulcimer,  and  all  kinds  of  music." 
{Daniel,  ch.  ill.  v.  3,  p.  189.)  Wliat  on  earth  can  we 
say  to  the  man  who  could  seriously  write  this? 

We  have  thus  set  forth  Dr.  Porteous's  argument  against 
the  organ,  an  argument  which  Dr.  Candlisli  tells  us, 
"  impressed  him,  when  he  ilrst  studied  it,  wilh  the  sort 
of  sense  of  completeness  which  a  satisfactory  demonstra- 
tion gives  ;  and  a  recent  perusal  has  not  lowered  his 
opinion  of  it."  ([).  30.)  For  ourselves,  it  has  impressed 
us  with  absolute  wonder  to  think  that  any  reasonable 
man  could  have  written  a  treatise  so  filled  with  bigotry 
and  ab.-urdity.  We  could  not  think  ol"  setting  ourselves 
to  answer  arguments  whose  folly  is  apparent  on  the  lirst 
glance  at  them  ;  indeed,  our  fear  is,  that  our  leaders  may 
fancy  we  have  intentionally  caricatured  tiicin,  and  we  beg 
to  tender  the  assurance  that  we  have  .-et  them  out  with 
scrupulous  fairness.  We  lament  to  see  that  mind-  natur- 
ally powerful  and  candid  can  be  oainpid  and  cnblied 
by  gloomy  prejudices  to  tiie  exter.t  cxcmplilied  in  Drs. 
Porleous  and  Caudlish,  and  we  confidently  make  our  ap- 
19 


290  THE  ORGAN  QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND. 

peal  f'roin  tliem  to  the  common  sense  of  the  people  of 
8(;otliiii(l.  The  great  mass  of  educated  Scotch  people  ia 
fast  becoming  extricated  from  the  vulgar  prejudice  against 
the  organ.  In  every  circle  of  polished  society,  the  wish 
may  he  heard  for  its  introduction,  on  tlie  broad  ground 
that  it  would  be  a  great  improvement,  and  that  there  is 
no  reason  whatever  against  it,  except  the  prejudice  of 
the  first  Scotch  reformers  against  everything  wiiich  had 
been  used  in  popish  or  pnlatic  wor.-hip.  The  feeling 
is  gaining  ground  in  Scotland  that  this  spirit  of  mere 
contrariety  was  allowed  to  ^  to  a  most  unreasonable 
length.  The  spirit  of  the  Covenanters  was,  "Never 
mind  if  kneeling  be  the  natural  posture  of  prayer,  and 
the  one  we  ourselves  always  adopt  in  private  ;  the  Pre- 
latists  kneel  in  church,  and  therefore  we  shall  stand. 
Never  mind  if  the  very  necessity  of  using  the  lungs 
points  to  standing  as  the  attitude  for  singing  God's 
praise  :  the  Prelatists  stand,  so  we  shall  sit."  And 
tliere  can  be  no  cpjestion  that  the  educated  classes  in 
Scotland,  in  laying  aside  the  spirit  of  pure  contrariety 
to  P2piscopacy,  and  looking  at  observances  and  estimating 
tliem  by  their  own  merits,  are  in  so  far  departing  from 
the  true  Presbj'terian  piinciple  ;  if  Ave  are  to  understand 
by  that  the  principle  of  the  gloomy  fanatics  who  signed 
the  Solemn  League  and  Covenant,  and  thereby  under- 
took to  "  endeavor  the  extirpation  of  Popery,  Prelacy, 
sui)erstition,  heresy,  schism,  and  profaneness."  *  No 
doubt  tlie  "  Cameronians "  and  "  Original  Seceders " 
of  Scotland  at  the  present  day,  are  a  great  deal  more 
like  the  Covenanters  than  is  the  Church  of  Scotland. 
Holding  that  for  many  reasons  Presbytery  is  the  best 
form  of  church-government  for  Scotland,  the  great  ma- 
^  Solemn  League  and  Covenant,  Section  II. 


THE  ORGAN  QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND.  291 

jority  of  the  clergy  of  the  Scotch  Church  are  equally 
persuaded  that  Episcopacy  is  the  best  form  of  church- 
government  for  England.  And  very  many  of  the  most 
influential  among  the  elders  of  the  Church  of  Scotland, 
say  at  once  that  they  are  Presbyterians  in  Scotland 
and  Episcopalians  in  England.  It  would  indeed  be*  a 
wretched  thing,  if  in  days  not  ovei"-friendly  to  eccle- 
siastical establishments,  the  Churches  of  England  and 
Scotland,  maintaining  precisely  the  same  doctrines,  and 
differing  solely  in  the  non-essential  of  church-govern- 
ment, should  ever  cherish  other  tlian  a  spirit  of  mutual 
kindness  and  mutual  support. 

At  the  same  time,  it  will  take  another  century  of  rail- 
way communication  and  intercourse  with  England  to  rub 
off  the  horror  of  Prelacy  and  all  its  belongings  which 
exists  among  the  humble  classes  —  at  least,  in  country- 
places.  A  cross  over  the  gable  of  a  church,  or  a  win- 
dow of  stained  glass,  must  still  be  introduced,  in  country- 
parishes,  with  great  caution.  We  observe  from  a  Scotch 
newspaper,  that  a  country  clergyman,  within  the  last 
six  months,  introduced  a  choir  of  trained  singers  into 
his  churcli,  in  the  hope  of  improving  tlie  psalmody. 
Whenever  tlie  choir  began  tlie  psalm,  most  of  the  con- 
gregation closed  tiieir  books,  and  refused  to  join  in  the 
singing,  and  many  rose  and  left  the  church.  A  choir 
was  introduced  in  the  parish  church  of  a  considerable 
town  in  the  north  of  Scotland.  Some  of  the  people  lis- 
tened in  wonder  to  its  first  notes,  and  tlien  hurried  out 
to  escape  the  profanation,  exclaiming,  "  They'll  be  bring- 
ing o'er  the  Pope  next !  "  If  a  country  minister  wishes 
his  precentor  or  clerk  to  appear  in  a  gown  and  a  wliite 
cieckcloth,  instead  of  entering  tlie  desk  in  a  sky-blue  coat 
and  scarlet  waistcoat,  some  of  his  parishioners  are  sure 


292  THE   ORGAN  C2UESTI0N   IN  SCOTLAND. 

to  trace  in  the  arrangement  an  undue  leaning  towanla 
Episcopacy.  Tiie  minister  of  a  remote  parish  was  pre- 
sented with  a  pulpit  gown  by  his  people.  The  people 
naturally  expected  to  see  it  next  Sunday,  and  a  larger 
congregation  came  to  see  the  gown  than  would  have 
a-sembled  to  hear  the  sermon.  The  minister,  however, 
wore  no  gown.  Some  of  the  chief  contributors  to  its 
expense  called  at  the  mans(%  to  express  the  hope  of  the 
parish  that  tlie  gown  might  be  worn. 

"  I  cannot  wear  it,"  said  the  minister  ;  "  it  is  too  large 
for  me." 

"  Too  large  !  "  was  the  reply  ;  ''  it  fits  elegantly." 

Upon  which  the  enlightened  and  cultivated  gentleman 
answered  — 

"  No,  it  is  far  too  large :  the  tail  of  it  reaches  a'  the 
way  to  Rome  !  " 

.No  doubt  this  man  would  have  judged  an  organ  a 
blasphemous,  Satanic,  Jewish,  Popish,  and  Prelatic  de- 
vice. But  we  do  not  believe  that  at  the  present  day 
such  a  person  could  be  found  among  the  clergy  of  the 
farthest  presbytery  of  the  Hebrides. 

We  do  not  think  that  the  time  has  come  for  the  gen- 
eral introduction  of  the  organ  in  Scotland.  There  is  no 
use  in  running  in  the  face  of  the  prejudices  of  a  whole 
j)eopIe  ;  and  while  the  opponents  of  the  organ  regard 
the  question  as  one  of  principle,  its  supporters  cannot 
regard  the  organ  as  more  than  a  luxury.  It  is 'a  step 
in  advance  that  tiiere  sliould  be  in  Scotland  such  a 
thing  as  "  Tiie  Organ  Question."  The  matter  is  now  in 
debate :  at  one  time  the  Presbyterian  who  raised  it 
would  have  been  knocked  on  the  head.  With  the  in- 
creasing enlightenment  of  the  age,  and  the  rapid  com- 
munication   that  now    exists    between    this  country  and 


THE  ORGAN   QUESTION  IN   SCOTLAND.  293 

Scotland,  it  is  a  mere  matter  of  time  till  the  organ 
siiall  be  employed  wherever  its  expense  can  be  afforded 
It  would  be  highly  inexpedient  to  press  it  upon  the  peo- 
ple now.  It  would  retard  the  period  of  its  general  re- 
ception. All  that  can  be  looked  for  at  present  is,  that 
permission  should  be  granted  to  each  congregation  to  act 
upon  its  own  judgment  in  the  matter  of  the  organ.  It 
will  be  introduced  first  in  the  churches  in  the  fashion- 
able, parts  of  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow,  next  in  country 
parishes  where  the  squire  has  been  educated  at  Oxford, 
and  ultimately,  we  doubt  not,  it  will  excite  as  little 
wonder  in  Scotland  as  it  does  in  England  now.  The 
tide  is  flowing  surely.  But  we  shall  not  live  to  see 
that  time. 

Half-material  beings  as  we  are,  and  often  the  worse 
for  the  material  things  which  surround  us  —  which  by 
their  very  solidity  make  spiritual  things  seem  shadowy 
and  unreal  in  the  comparison  —  it  is  well  when  we  can 
make  (so  to  speak)  a  reprisal  on  the  hostile  territory, 
and  get  a  material  thing  to  conduce  to  our  spiritual  ad- 
vantage. "We  cannot  but  think  that  in  all  the  reason- 
ings  of  ultra-Presbyterians  on  the  immorality  of  organs, 
there  is  woven  a  thread  of  the  old  Gnostic  heresy  of  the 
essential  evil  of  matter  ;  as  though  the  same  God  wlio 
made  our  spirits  capable  of  being  impressed,  hail  not 
made  tlie  material  sights  and  sounds  which  are  capable 
of  impressing  them.  We  are  not  afraid  to  argue  "The 
Organ  Question  "  with  Dr.  Candlish  on  the  highest  am) 
farthest-reaching  grounds,  though  we  think  it  quite  suf- 
ficiently decided  by  the  ready  appeal  to  common  sense. 
But  what  greater  harm  is  there  in  using  the  organ's 
notes  to  waken  pious  thought  and  feeling,  than  in  learn- 
ing a  lesson  of  our  decay  from  the  material  emblem  of 


294  THE  ORGAN   QUESTION"  IN  SCOTLAND. 

the  fading  leaf,  or  from  the  lapse  of  the  passing  rivt.r  ? 
If  it  be  not  wri)ng  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  natural  pen- 
eiveness  of  tlu!  dcparling  light,  and  to  go  forth  like  Isaac 
in  the  eventide  to  meditate  upon  our  most  solemn  con- 
cerns,—  why  is  it  sinful  or  degrading  to  turn  to  use  the 
native  power  wliieh  ti)e  Creator  has  set  in  the  organs 
tones  to  stir  tender  and  holy  emotion  ?  When  we  can 
get  the  Material  to  yi(dd  us  any  impulse  upward,  in 
God's  name  let  us  take  its  aid  and  be  thankful !  And 
as  Dr.  Candlish  likes  authorities,  we  shall  conclude  with 
a  better  authority  than  that  of  Dr.  Porteous.  Jle  tells 
us  that  the  organ  may  "  tickle  the  ear,"  but  denies  its 
power  to  touch  the  henrt.  Milton  thought  othei-wise : 
and  we  believe  that  /it's  words  describe  the  normal  influ- 
ence of  the  organ  on  tlie  healthy  human  mind:  — 

But  let  my  flue  feet  never  fail 

To  walk  the  stmlious  cloister's  pale; 

And  love  the  liii^h  embowered  roof, 

With  antifine  pillars  mas<y  proof, 

And  storied  windows  richly  dipfht, 

Castini;  a  dim  reli;;ious  liji:ht; 

There  let  tlie  pealing'  orj^an  blow 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below, 

In  service  hif^h  and  antliems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  throu{jh  mine  ear. 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 


CHAPTER   XI. 


TIIORNDALE;  OR,  THE  CONFLICT  OF  OPINIONS' 


||0tJ|i|^4UT[IOES,  moral  and  political,  have  of  late 
'.'i-y  yeai\>  been  recognizing  the  fact,  that  abstract 
trutlia  become  much  more  generally  attrac- 
ir}  live  ■when  something  of  human  interest  is 
added  to  tliem.  Most  people  feel  as  if  thoughts  and 
opinions  gain  a  more  substantial  being,  and  lose  their 
ghost-like  intangibility,  when  we  know  something  of  the 
character  and  history  of  the  man  who  entertained  them, 
and  something  of  the  outward  scenery  amid  which  he 
entertained  tiiem.  Very  many  persons  feel  as  if,  in  pass- 
ing from  fact,  or  what  purports  to  be  fact,  to  principle, 
they  were  exchanging  the  tiim  footing  of  solid  land  for 
the  yielding  and  impalpable  air  ;  and  a  framework  of 
scenes  and  persons  is  like  a  wing  to  buoy  them  up  in 
traversing  that  unaccustomed  medium.  And  there  are 
few  indeed  to  whom  a  peculiar  interest  does  not  result 
when  views  and  opinions,  instead  of  standing  nakedly  on 
the  printed  page,  are  stated  and  discussed  in  friendly 
council  by  individual  men,  seated  upon  a  real  grassy 
slope,  canopied  by  substantial  trees,  and  commanding  a 
prospect  of  real  hills,  and  streams,  and  valleys.  It  is  not 
entirely  true  that  argument  has  its  weight  and  force  in 

1  Tliornd'de ;  or,  the  Coj)Jlict  c^f  Oj»'nions.     By  "Willia'u  Smith.     Ed- 
raburgh:  Blackwoods.     1857. 


296  THORNDALE  ;  OR,  THE 

itself,  quite  apart  from  its  author.  In  the  matter  of  prac- 
tical eliect,  on  actual  liuinan  beings,  a  good  deal  depends 
on  the  lips  it  comes  from. 

The  author  of  "  Thorndale  "  has  recognized  and  acted 
upon  this  principle.     Mr.  William  Smith  is  a  philosoj)her 
and  a  poet,  as  the  readers  of  his  tragedy,  "  Athelwold," 
are  already  aware  ;  and  whoever  sits  down  to  read  his 
new   book  as  an   ordinary  work  of  fiction  to  be  hurrictd 
through  for  its  plot-interest,  will  probably  not  turn  many 
pages  before  closing  the  volume.     The  great  purpose  of 
the  work  is  to  set  out  a  variety  of  opinions  upon  several 
matters  which  concern  tlie  highest  interests  of  the  individ- 
ual man  and  of  the  human  race  ;  but  instead  of  present- 
ing them  in  naked  abstractness,  Mr.  Smith  has  set  them 
in  a  slight  story,  and  given  them  as  the  tenets  or  the  fan- 
cies of  different  men,  whose  characters  are  so  drawn  that 
these  tenets  and  fancies  appear  to  be  just  their  natural 
culmination  and  result.     If  we  were  dispo-ed  to  be  hyper- 
critical, we  might  say  that  tlie  dillerent  characters  sketched 
by  Mr.  Smith  are  too  plainly  i)uilt  up  to  serve  as  the  sub- 
strata  of  the  opinions   which    they   express.      There  is 
hardly  allowance  enough  made  for  tlie  waywardness  and 
inconsistency   of  human   conclusion    and   action.      Given 
any   one   of  Mr.   Smith's  men   in  certain   circumstances, 
and  we  are  only  too  sure  of  what  he  will  do  or  say.     The 
Utopian  is  always  hopeful ;  the  desponding  philosopher 
is  never  brightened  up  by  a  ray  of  hope.     But  this,  it  is 
obvious,  is  a  result  arrived  at  upon  system  ;   for  we  shall 
find  abundant  i)roof  in   the  volume  that  Mr.  Smith  has 
read  deeply  and  accurately  into  human  nature,  in  all  its 
weaknesses,  fancies,  hopes,  and  fears.     It  is  long  since 
we  have  met  with  a  more  remarkable  or  worthy  book. 
Mr.  Smith  is  always  thoughtful  and  suggestive:  he  has 


CONFi.CT  OF  OPINIONS.  297 

been  entirely  successful  in  carrying  out  his  wish  to  pro- 
duce a  volume  in  reading  which  a  thoughtful  man  will 
often  pause  with  his  finger  between  the  leaves,  and  muse 
upon  what  he  has  read.  We  judge  that  the  book  must 
have  been  written  slowly,  and  at  intervals,  from  its  afflu- 
ence of  beautiful  thought.  No  mind  could  have  t  irned 
off  such  material  with  the  equable  flow  of  a  stream.  We 
know  few  works  in  which  there  may  be  found  so  many 
fine  thoughts,  light-bringing  illustrations,  and  happy  turns 
of  expression,  to  invite  the  reader's  pencil.  A  delicate 
refinement,  a  simple  and  pathetic  eloquence,  a  kindly 
sympathy  with  all  sentient  things,  are  everywhere  api)ar- 
ent :  but  the  construction  of  the  book,  in  which  the  most 
opposite  opinions  are  expressed  by  the  different  charac- 
ters without  the  least  editorial  conunent,  approval  or  dis- 
approval, renders  it  difficult  to  judge  what  are  truly  the 
opinions  of  the  author  himself.  Mr.  Smith's  English 
style  is  of  classic  beauty  :  nothing  can  surpass  the  deli- 
cate grace  and  finish  of  many  passages  of  description  and 
reflection  ;  and  although  it  was  of  course  impossible,  and 
indeed  not  desirable,  that  equal  pains  should  be  bestowed 
upon  the  ni(;lody  of  all  the  pages  of  the  book,  still  the 
lano-uage  is  never  slovenly ;  the  hand  of  the  tasteful 
scholar  is  everywhere.  Nor  should  we  i'lul  to  remark 
the  author's  versatility  of  power.  Everything  he  does  is 
done  with  equal  ease  and  felicity:  —  description  of  exter- 
nal nature,  analysis  of  feeling  and  motive,  close  logic 
large  views  of  men  and  things.  There  is  not  the  gentle 
and  graceful  humor  of  Mr.  Helps:  the  book  is  serious 
througliout,  with  no  inlusion  of  playfulness.  The  author 
evidently  thinks  that  in  this  world  there  is  not  much  to 
smile  at, —  unless  it  be  at  everything.  Let  us  remark, 
that  in  this  volume  the  characters  come  and  go  as  in  real 


298  THORNDALE  ;    OR,  THE 

life.  There  is  notliing  of  the  novel's  artificial  working 
up  of  interest,  deepening  to  the  close.  Mr.  Smith  may 
say  of  his  book,  as  Mr.  Bailey  of  his  grand  but  unequal 
poem  :  — 

"  It  has  a  plan,  but  no  plot:  — Life  has  none." 

But  Mr.  Smith's  men,  after  all,  are  not  such  as  one 
commonly  meets.  They  are  all  greatly  occupied,  and 
for  the  most  part  perplexed  and  distressed  about  specu- 
lative and  social  dilliculties.  Now  in  ordinary  life  sucli 
distresses  are  little  felt.  Are  we  wrong  in  saying  that 
they  are  never  felt  at  all,  except  in  idleness  ;  —  or  by 
minds  far  above  the  average  of  the  lace  ?  How  little 
are  the  perplexities  of  speculation  to  the  busy  man,  anx- 
ious and  toiling  to  find  the  means  of  maintaining  his  wife 
and  children,  of  paying  his  Christmas  bills,  and  generally 
of  making  the  ends  meet  at  the  close  of  the  year !  That, 
whether  we  admit  the  fact  or  deny  it,  is,  with  the  great 
majority  even  of  cultivated  men,  the  practical  problem 
of  life.  And  indeed  it  is  sad  to  think  how,  long  before 
middle  age,  in  many  a  man  who  started  with  higher  aspi- 
rations, that  becomes  the  great  end  of  labor  and  of  thought. 
But  it  seems  to  be  a  law  of  mind,  that  as  the  grosser  and 
more  material  wants  are  supplie<l,  other  wants  of  a  more 
ethereal  and  fanciful  nature  come  to  be  felt.  And  thu* 
perhaps  many  a  man,  whom  circimistances  now  compel 
to  bestow  all  his  energi(;s  on  the  quest  of  the  supply  of 
the  day  that  is  passing  over  him  and  his,  is  by  those  very 
circumstances  saved  from  feeling  wants  more  crushing, 
and  from  grappling  with  liddles  and  mysteries  that  sit 
with  a  heavy  perplexity  upon  the  heart.  Let  us  be 
thankful  if  we  are  not  too  independent  of  work:  let  U3 
be  thankful  that  we  are  not  too  thoughtful  and  able. 


CONFLICT  OF   OPINIONS.  299 

Mr.  Smith's  book  sets  out  with  a  charming  (le?;cription 

of  a   secluded   dwelling   to    whicii   a    young   philosophic 

thinker,  smitten  by  consumption,  had  retired  to  die.     On 

a  little  terrace,  near  the  summit  of  Mount  Posilipo,  there 

stands  a  retired  villa,  looking  from  that  heiglit  over  the 

Bay  of  Naples.      Overlooked  by   none,   it   commands   a 

wide  extent  of  view.      Myrtle  and  roses  have  overgrown 

its  pillared  front.     The  rock   descends  sheer  down  from 

tlie  terrace.     Charles  Thorndale,  the   iiero  of  tlie  book, 

had  been  charmed  by  the   Villa  Scarpa  in  the  course  of 

a  continental  tour,  made  while  still  in  health;  and  when 

stricken   with  the   disease    of  which   he  died,   and   when 

the  physicians   spoke  of  the  climate  of   Italy,  he  chose 

this  for  his  last  retreat.     It  would  not  be  long  he  would 

be   there,   he   knew;    and   in  its  quiet    he  had   much   to 

think  of. 

It  is  a  spot,  one  would  say,  in  which  it  would  be  very  hard  to  part 
with  this  divine  faculty  of  thought.  It  seems  made  for  the  very  spirit 
of  meditation.  The  little  platform  on  which  the  villa  stands  is  so  sit- 
uated, that,  while  it  commands  the  most  extensive  prospect  imaginable, 
it  is  itself  entirely  sheltered  from  observation.  No  house  of  anj'  kind 
overlooks  it;  from  no  road  is  it  visible;  not  a  sound  from  the  neighbor- 
ing city  ascends  to  it.  From  one  part  of  the  jnirapet  that  bounds  the 
terrace  j'ou  may  sometimes  catch  sight  of  a  swarthy,  bare-legged  fish- 
erman, sauntering  on  the  beach,  or  lying  at  full  length  in  the  sun.  It 
is  the  only  specimen  of  humanity  you  are  likely  to  behold:  you  live 
solely  in  the  eye  of  nature.  It  is  with  dilHculty  you  can  believe  that 
within  the  space  of  an  hour  you  may,  if  you  choose  it,  be  elbowing 
your  way,  jostled  and  stunned,  amongst  the  swarming  population  of 
Naples  —  surely  the  noisest  hive  of  human  beings  anywhere  to  bo 
found  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Here,  on  these  heights,  is  perfect  slill- 
ncssi,  with  perfect  beauty.  What  voices  come  to  you  from  the  upper 
air — the  winds  and  the  melody  of  birds;  and  not  uufrequently  the 
graceful  sea-gull  utters  its  short,  j)laintive  cry,  as  it  wheels  round  and 
oack  to  its  own  ocean-tields.  And  then  that  glorious  silent  picture  foi 
ever  open  to  the  eye!  Picture!  you  hastily  retract  the  word.  It  is 
no  dead  picture;  it  is  the  living  spirit  of  the  universe  manifesting  itsci' 
in  glorious  vision,  to  the  eye  and  the  soul  of  man. 


300  THORNDALE;   OR,  THE 

Tliorndale  was  a  studioud  man,  but  liad  not  been  at- 
tracted by  either  of  tlie  learned  professions.  His  modest 
competency  relieved  him  from  the  necessity  of  choosing 
a  decided  path  in  life.  Like  many  meditative  idlers,  l»o 
intended,  vaguely,  to  write  a  book  ;  and,  indeed,  he  did 
finish  a  philosophical  treatise  more  than  once  ;  but  he 
always  became  dissatisfied  with  it  and  destroyed  it.  But 
in  his  retirement  at  ViUa  Scarpa,  a  large  manuscript  vol- 
ume lay  on  his  table,  in  which,  "  the  habit  of  the  pen  " 
clinging  to  him  to  the  last,  he  was  accustomed  to  write 
down  his  thoughts  upon  wliatever  topic  interested  him  for 
the  time.  This  book  was  autobiograpliy,  essay,  diary, 
record  of  former  conversations  with  friends,  as  the  humor 
of  the  moment  prompted  ;  and  we  are  invited  to  believe 
that  this  book,  having  fallen  into  tiie  hands  of  Mr.  Smith, 
is  now  given  to  the  world  :  — 

It  is  precisely  this  manuscript  volume,  note-book,  memoir,  diary, 
whatever  it  siiould  be  called,  whicli  we  have  to  present  to  the  reader. 
In  it,  Tliorndale,  though  apparently  with  little  of  set  purpose  or  de- 
sign, gives  us  a  descriptinn  of  himself  and  of  several  friends,  or  rather 
sketches  out  their  opinions  and  modes  of  thinking.  Amongst  these  two 
may  be  at  once  particularly  mentioned:  Ctnrtnce,  who  might  be  called 
a  representative  of  the  pliiloso|)hy  of  hope;  and  Si^cktndorf,  his  com- 
plete contrast,  and  who,  e^peciall3'  on  the  subject  of  human  progress, 
takes  the  side  of  denial  or  of  cavil. 

Tlie  author,  or  editor,  sets  before  us  the  character  of 
his  hero,  less  by  one  complete  description,  than  by  many 
touches,  given  here  and  there,  as  he  exhil)its  Thorndale  to 
us  in  various  combinations  of  circumstances,  and  at  sev- 
eral critical  points  in  his  life.  Our  impression  of  Thorn- 
dale  is  being  letouched,  modified,  liglitened,  and  shadowed, 
on  to  the  close  of  the  book.  He  was  a  meditative  and 
melancholy  man,  of  little  pith  or  active  energy  :  he  waa 
ehy  and  retiring ;  overshadowed  by  a  settled  despond- 


CONFLICT  OF  OPINIONS.  301 

ency ;  but  always  kind  and  gentle,  with  no  trace  of  fret 
fulness  or  irritability.  Although  his  character  is  an  in 
teresting  and  trutliful  one,  it  is  essentially  morbid  ;  and 
we  may  be  glad  that  men  like  him  must  always  be 
few.  We  should  have  no  i-ailroads,  no  Great  Easterns, 
no  ocean  telegraphs,  in  a  world  peopled  by  Thorndaleg. 
riie  weakly  physical  constitution  which  he  bore  from 
birth,  had  much  to  do  with  the  tone  of  his  thought  and 
feeling.  The  remark  is  in  the  main  just  and  sound, 
though  it  was  made  by  Boswell :  — 

The  truth  is,  that  we  judge  of  the  happiuess  and  miserj'  of  life  dif- 
ferently at  diflfcrent  times,  according  to  the  state  of  our  changeable 
frame.  I  always  remember  a  remurk  made  to  me  by  a  Turki.sh  lady 
educated  in  France:  Mafoi,  r.tonsitw,  nutrebonheur  depend  da  lafaqon 
que  noire  sang  circule. 

Nor  ought  we  to  forget  that  deeply  philosophic  remark 
of  Sydney  Smith,  that  little  stoppages  in  the  bodily  cir- 
culation are  the  things  which,  above  all  others,  darken 
our  views  of  life  and  of  man.  A  friend,  said  the  genial 
physiologist,  comes  to  him  in  a  most  depressed  condition. 
He  declares  that  his  affairs  are  getting  embarra.ssed  ;  that 
he  must  retrench  his  establishment  antl  retire  to  the  coun- 
try;  that  his  daughter's  cough  has  setth^d  upon  the  lungs; 
that  his  wife  is  breaking  up,  and  his  son  going  to  the  mis- 
chief. But  Sydney  only  asks  on  what  he  supped  the 
evening  before  ;  and  finds  that  he  then  partook  of  lob- 
lUer  to  an  undue  degree.  "All  this,"  he  says,  "all  these 
gloomy  views  are  the  lobster."  Instead  of  seeking  di- 
rectly to  minister  to  a  mind  diseased,  he  does  so  indi- 
rectly, but  not  the  less  effectually.  He  sugge.-ts  medicine, 
not  philosophy.  And  next  day  the  world  is  a  capital 
world,  after  all ;  the  income  is  ami)le,  the  cough  is  gone 
the  wife  is  in  rude  health,  and  the  son  all  that  a  father's 


302  THOKNDALE;   OR,  THE 

heart  could  wish.  Now  in  the  case  of  Tiiorndale,  there 
was  an  entire  defieieucy  of  heahliy  aninuilism  ;  and  if, 
as  a  Scotc-li  divine  lately  declared  in  a  sermon  published 
by  royal  command,  it  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a  dyspeptic  naan  to  be  kind, 
gentle,  and  long-suffering ;  not  less  true  is  it  that  a  well- 
knit,  vigorous,  sinewy  mind,  is  oftentimes  trammelled  and 
hampered  all  through  life,  by  being  linked  to  a  weakly, 
puny,  jaded  body.  How  much  of  Sydney  Smith's  wit, 
how  much  of  Christopher  North's  reckless  abandonment 
of  glee,  vvas  the  result  of  physical  organization !  How 
incomprehensible  to  many  men  must  such  despondency 
as  Thorndale's  seem  !  No  worldly  wants  or  anxieties, 
no  burden  of  remorse,  kind  friends  around  him,  what 
right  had  he  to  be  uidiappy?*  Thorndale,  in  short,  is  a 
less  energetic  and  passionate  form  of  the  nameless  hero 
of  Maud.  Shall  we  confess  that  a  less  happy  association 
at  certain  points  in  his  history  suggested  itself  to  our 
mind  ?  We  thought  of  Mr.  Augustus  Moddle,  of  whom 
his  historian  records  as  follows:  — 

He  often  informed  Mrs.  Todgers  tliat  the  sun  had  set  upon  him;  that 
the  liillows  had  rolled  over  him  ;  that  the  car  of  J  ugj^e rnaut  had  crushed 
him;  and  also  that  the  deadly  upas  tree  of  Java  had  blighted  him.- 

Young  men,  who  at  five-and-twenty  profess  that  they 
have  lost  all  interest  in  life,  and  tliat  they  have  done  with 
time,  are  by  no  means  uncommon.     But  Byron's  influ- 

1  We  remember  a  review  of  }faud  which  we  read  in  a  certain  pro- 
vincial journal.  The  writer  evidently  thought  the  gloomy  hero  an 
ungrateful  and  querulous  fellow  for  milking  such  a  moan.  "Why," 
said  the  reviewer,  "the  man  was  in  very  comfortable  circumstances: 
he  was  able  to  have  two  servant.?  (' /  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid'): 
and -what  earthly  right  had  he  to  be  always  grumbling?  If  a  man 
has  two  servants,  ought  he  not  to  be  content?  " 

2  Dickens's  Martin  Chuzzlewit. 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  303 

ence    is    wearing   out ;    and    tliey  are    pretty   generally 
-  lauglied   at.     Yet   where   a  lad   at  college  can  say  sin- 
cerely, as  Thoi-ndale  said  — 

For  me,  there  was  more  excitement  to  be  Rot  out  of  any  dingy  bookj 
thumbed  over  by  a  solitary  rushligiit,  than  from  (ifty  ball-rooms  — 

his  mind  is  taking  a  morbid  growth,  whicli  bodes  no  good 
to  himself;  nor  are  things  better  when  he  goes  on  a  tour 
to  the  Cumberland  lakes,  and  instead  of  cheerfully  enjoy- 
ing the  scenes  around  hira,  goes  on  as  follows :  — 

Forgetful  of  lake  and  mountain,  my  eyes  fixed  perhaps  on  the  top- 
moFt  bar  of  some  roadside  gate  which  I  had  intended  to  open,  or  paus- 
ing stock-still  before  some  hedgerow  in  the  solitary  lane,  apparently 
intent  upon  the  buds  of  the  hawtliorn,  as  if  I  were  penetrating  into  the 
very  secrets  of  vegetable  life,  I  have  stood  for  hours  musing  on  the 
intricate  problems  which  our  social  condition  presents  to  us. 

We  need  not  say  that  such  a  man  is  out  of  his  place 
in  England  in  the  nineteenth  century.  In  this  age  we 
want,  not  visionaries,  but  actors ;  lu^althy,  robust  men, 
like  Arnold,  who  can  think  and  reason,  and  who  can 
likewise  walk  five  miles  in  the  hour.  Perhaps,  indeed, 
the  cry  for  "muscular  Christianity"  is  passing  into  cant; 
and  we  know  of  noble  minds  which,  notwithstanding  the 
clog  of  physical  debility  and  suffering,  bear  a  kindly  sym- 
pathy towards  all  mankind,  and  make  the  race  their 
debtors  for  the  gift  of  elevating  thoughts.  But  as  for 
Thorndale  —  sensitive  as  the  mimosa,  ever  watching  with 
introverted  eye  the  lights  and  shadows  of  his  own  mind 
—  how  could  he  be  liappy  ?  A  certain  amount  of  insen- 
sibility is  in  this  world  needful  to  that.  We  must  not 
bear  a  nervous  system  so  delicately  appreciative  of  ex- 
ternal influences  as  to  keep  us  ever  on  the  flutter  or  on 
the  rack.  Above  all,  let  us  have  the  equable  mind, 
though  it  should  live  in  a  light  which  is  uniformly  sub- 


304  THORNDALE;  OR,  THE 

dued,  rather  than  that  which  is  ever  alternating  between 
April  sunshine  and  A[)ril  gloom.  Justly  and  thought- 
fully did  Wordsworth  make  this  equanimity  a  marked 
characteristic  of  the  happiness  of  a  higher  life  :  — 

He  spake  of  love,  sucli  love  as  spirits  feel, 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure: 
No  tears  to  beat  away,  no  strife  to  heal, 
The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure: 
Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued.^^ 

We  may  have  faults  to  find  with  the  character  of 
Thorndale,  regarded  as  that  of  a  representative  man  : 
but  we  feel  at  once  with  what  delicate  accuracy  the 
author  maintains  its  keeping.  Krom  first  to  last,  he 
never  speaks  or  acts  olhcrwisc  than  he  ought,  under 
the  given  conditions.  Tiie  malady  that  killed  him 
had  marked  him  from  his  birih;  and  he  is  always  the 
same  kindly,  teniler-heartcd,  meditative,  unenergetic, 
spiritless  being.  Mr.  Smith  shows  us  the  whole  man 
by  one  happy  touch.  Thorndale  had  chosen  the  shores 
of  Loch  Lomond  as  his  autumn  retreat  one  year.  He 
had  been  there  only  a  day,  wlicn  he  suddenly  resolved 
that  he  would  return  and  seek  the  hand  of  a  gentle 
cousin  whom  he  loved,  and  who  appears  not  to  have 
been  indifferent  to  him.  He  had  hitiierto  kept  silence, 
because  her  worldly  position  was  higiier  than  his  own. 
He  left  Loch  Lomond  on  the  instant ;  he  travelled  on  day 
and  night ;  he  seemed  never  to  have  drawn  breath  till 
he  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  shrubbery  that  surroimded 
Sutton   Manor,  her  home  and  his  :  — 

Then  indeed  I  paused.  Leaning  on  the  half-opened  gate,  I  saw 
»gani  my  own  position  in  its  true  and  natural  light.    Was  it  not  al- 

l  Laoclumia. 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  305 

ways  known  and  understood  that  such  a  thing  was  not  to  be  ?  One 
after  the  other,  all  my  fallacious  reasonings  deserted  me.  What  mad- 
ness could  have  brought  me  there?  I  hoped  no  one  had  seen  me. 
Slowly  and  softly  the  half-opened  gate  was  closed  again.  I  walked 
away,  retracing  my  steps  as  unobserved  as  possible  through  the  vil- 
lage. 

Here  was  Thonidulc  himself.  Like  most  thoughtful 
men,  he  had  much  of  the  invsolution  of  Hamlet,  —  the 
irresolution  that  comes  of  thinking  too  mucii.  Tiiere  can 
be  no  doubt  that  in  order  to  act  slap-dash,  wilh  piompt- 
iiess  and  decision,  it  is  best  not  to  see  a  case  in  all 
its  bearings.  It  is  best  to  see  one  side  clearly  and 
strongly:  —  and  then  no  lurking  irresolution  will  retard 
ihe  arm  in  its  descent.  Here  was  the  secret  of  poor 
Thorndale's  creeping  away,  with  a  sinking  heart,  from 
the  only  presence  lu;  cared  for  in  this  world.  There  is 
not  invariable  truth  in  the  lines  of  Montrose, — 

lie  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  desert  is  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 

And  win  or  lose  it  all. 

We  need  not  relate  how  the  author  explains  his  chanc- 
ing upon  Villa  Scarpa  in  wandering  about  Naples.  Tiie 
villa  was  then  deserted  ;  all  was  over.  We  have  no 
particulars  recorded  of  Thorndale's  death.  We  confess 
we  feel  in  this  omission  something  of  cruelty  on  the 
author's  part  towards  his  hero.  Tln.'i-e  is  something 
pitiful  in  the  story  of  the  neglected  manuscript-volume, 
found  after  the  poor  visionary  was  gone,  hidden  away  in 
the  roof  of  the  abandoned  house  ;  and  in  the  picture 
which  rises  before  us  of  tiie  tender-hearted  youth,  lying 
down  to  die  alone.  He  had  a  kind  servant,  indeed  ;  and 
an  old  friend,  with  his  little  ailopted  daughter,  who  re- 
appeared as  evening  was  darkening  down,  may  be  sup- 
2G 


306  TflOIIXDALE;    OR,   THE 

posed  U>  hav(-  tiMided  and  sootliiid  the  la.-^t  agony.  But 
'  Mr.  Sniitli,  in  his  cari^lul  avoidanc^e  of  whatever  mi"-ht 
seem  a  clap-trap  expedient  to  excite  interest  and  feeling, 
is  entirely  silent  as  to  the  close.  However,  he  chanced 
i>n  the  deserted  Villa  Scarpa:  he  found  a  despatch-box, 
In-aring  the  name  of  Charles  Thonidale,  whom  he  had 
known,  though  not  intimately.  Tiiis  despatch-hox  con- 
ained  the  manuscript  vohune  ah'eady  mentioned,  which 
Thorndale  seemed  to  have  ht-qneatlied  to  the  first  finder 
and  the  good-natured  Italian  to  whom  the  villa  belonged, 
willingly  gave  up  box  and  manuscript  to  one  who  said 
he  had  been  Thorndale's  friend.  We  quote  a  single  sen- 
tence, for  its  graceful  beauty,  from  the  picture  of  Thorn- 
dale  called  up  to  the  mind's  eye  of  his  editor,  on  thus 
chancing  on   his  last  retreat:  — 

His  eye  was  not  thatof  whicli  it  is  so  often  said  that  it  fooks  through 
y(ju,  for  it  rather  seemed  to  he  looiting  out  heyond  you.  The  ohject 
at  which  it  gazed  became  the  haif-tbrgotten  centre  round  wiiich  the 
eddying  stream  of  thouglit  was  flowing;  and  you  stood  there,  fil;e 
some  islet  in  a  river  which  is  encircled  on  all  sides  by  the  swift  and 
silent  Hood. 

The  manuscript  volume  now  published  has  been  di- 
vided by  its  editor  into  five  books,  and  each  of  these 
into  several  chapters.  Book  I.  is  called  "  The  Last  Re- 
treat:" it  is  given  to  many  reflections,  mostly  thrown  out 
wiih  little  arrangement,  upon  the  Sentiment  of  Beauty, 
and  upon  the  two  Futurities,  the  one  on  this  side  and  the 
other  beyond  the  grave.  In  Book  II.,  which  is  called 
"  The  Retrospect,"  the  current  of  thought  has  set  away 
into  the  past ;  and  we  have  an  autobiographical  sketch. 
Book  III.,  called  "Cyril,  or  the  Modern  Cistercian," 
gives  an  account  of  the  conflict  of  thought  by  which  a 
companion    passed  from   an    P>vangelical  Anglican   to  a 


CONFLICT   OF  OPINIONS.  307 

Roman  Catholic  monk.  .  Book  IV.,  "  Seckendorf,  or  the 
Spirit  of  Denial,"  sketches  the  character  and  views  of 
ii  friend  who  cavilled  at  the  possibility  of  all  human 
progress.  In  Book  V.,  "  Clarence,  or  the  Utopian,"  we 
first  read  how,  as  strength  and  life  had  well-nigh  ebbed 
away,  Thorndale  met  once  more  with  an  old  friend  of 
iiopeful  views,  who  seems  to  have  stayed  by  him  to 
tlio  last:  and  when  Thorndale's  weak  hand  had  laid 
down  the  pen  fur  the  last  time,  Clarence  wrote  out,  in 
the  last  two  hundred  pages  of  the  volume,  his  Confessio 
Fidei ;  —  a  connected  view  of  his  theory  of  man,  the 
growth  of  the  individual  consciousness,  and  the  develop- 
ment of  tile  human  race. 

Tlie  earlier  i)art  of  the  book  is  very  desultory  ;  and 
the  book  as  a  wliole  appeals  to  a  limited  class  of  readers. 
There  will  never  be  a  rush  for  it  to  the  book-club  in  the 
county  town.  Young-lady  readers  will  tor  the  most  part 
vote  it  a  bore  ;  and  solid  old  gentlemen  of  bread-and- 
butter  intellect  will  judge  Thorndale  and  his  irieiids  a 
crew  of  morbid  dreamers,  —  though  the  book,  amid  sub- 
limer  speculations,  sets  out  here  and  there  much  common 
sense  on  the  affairs  of  practical  life.  Jiut  we  trust  that 
Mr.  Smitli  may  find  an  audience  lit,  and  not  so  few.  It 
elevates  and  refines  the  mind  to  hold  converse  with  an 
author  of  his  stamp.  And  how  much  the  world  must 
have  gone  through  before  such  a  cliaracter  as  Thorn- 
dale's  became  possible  !  No  appliance  of  modern  lux- 
ury, no  contrivance  of  modern  science,  says  .•^o  much  as 
the  conception  of  such  a  character  for  the  civilization 
and  artificiaUty  of  our  modern  life.  Although  the  book 
is  mainly  dissertational,  the  reader  will  find  in  it  nmch  ex- 
quisite narrative,  and  much  skilful  delineation  of  charac- 
ter, in  the  history  of  the  hero  and  his  friends,  their  views 


308  THORNDALE;   OR,  THE 

and  fate*.  Yet,  while  we  cordially  acknowledge  'n  Mr 
Smith  a  man  oi  refined  and  pathetic  genius,  we  should 
not  be  doing  justice  to  ourselves  if  we  did  not  say,  that 
in  all  the  views  of  life  and  society,  whether  ho|)(>ful  or 
desponding,  which  are  set  out  in  the  book,  we  have  felt 
strongly  a  great  blank  and  void.  We  believe,  ami  wo 
humbly  hope  we  shall  never  cease  believing,  that  Chris- 
tianity shows  us  the  true  stand-point  from  which  to  look 
at  man,  and  the  true  lever  by  which  to  elevate  him. 
We  believe  that  the  same  influence  which  has  raised  our 
hopes  to  "  life  and  iminoi  tality,"  must  and  will  elevate 
and  purify  this  mortal  life.  We  believe  ih.it  it  is  false 
piiilosophy  to  ignore  the  existence,  power,  and  teaching 
of  the  Christian  faith  ;  and  to  take  pains,  before  looking 
into  the  framework  and  the  prospects  of  society,  to  ex- 
clude the  only  light  which  can  search  out  the  dark  re- 
cesses, and  dissipate  the  gloom  that  hangs  before.  Why 
should  a  man  persist  in  wading  through  Chat  Moss  on  a 
drenching  December  day,  when  the  means  are  provided 
of  flitting  over  it,  light  and  warm  and  dry?  Why  should 
we  go  up  to  Box-hill,  and  declare  we  shall  dig  our  way 
through  it  with  our  own  nails  and  fingers  (being  in 
haste)  ;  when  we  know  that  it  has  been  nobly  tunnelled 
for  us  already  ? 

Tlie  first  book,  entitled  "  The  Last  Retreat,"  consists 
of  disjointed  fragments  of  thought,  cast  upon  the  page 
with  little  effort  at  arrangement.  All  these  fragments 
are  well  worthy  of  preservation  :  many  of  them  are  of 
striking  originality  and  force.  The  dying  man  becomes 
aware  that  a  peculiar  beauty  has  been  added  to  the  beau- 
tiful scenes  around  him  by  the  close  approach  of  death 
He  says, — 


CONFLICT   OF  OPINIONS.  309 

I  owe  to  death  half  the  beauty  of  this  scene,  and  altogether  owe  to 
him  the  constant  serenity  witli  which  I  gaze  upon  it.  .  .  .  Strange; 
how  the  beauty  and  mystei-y  of  all  nature  is  heightened  by  the  near 
prospect  of  that  coming  darkness  which  will  sweep  it  all  away!  —  that 
night  which  will  have  no  star  in  it!  These  heavens,  with  all  their 
glories,  will  soon  be  blotted  out  for  me.  The  eye,  and  that  which  is 
iieliind  the  eye  will  soon  close,  soon  rest,  and  there  will  be  no  more 
beniity,  no  more  mystery  for  me.  .  .  .  What  an  air  of  freshness,  of 
novelty,  and  surprise,  doe?  each  old  and  familiar  object  assume  to  me 
when  I  think  of  parting  with  it  for  ever! 

There  is  no  more  of  ennui  now.  Time  is  too  short,  and  this  world 
too  wonderful.  Everything  I  behold  is  new  and  strange.  If  a  dog 
looks  up  at  me  in  the  face,  I  startle  at  Ms  intelligence.  "I  am  in  a 
foreign  land,"  you  say.  True,  all  the  world  has  become  foreign  land 
to  me.     I  am  perpetually  ou  a  voyuge  of  discoverv. 

Very  true,  very  real,  is  this  feeling,  drawn  from  the 
much-sugge.*ting  Nv^  yap  epx^Tai !  We  really  do  enjoy 
things  intensely,  because  we  know  we  are  not  to  have 
them  long.  And  how  well  does  experience  certify  that 
the  most  familiar  scene  grows  new  and  strange  to  us 
when  we  are  forthwith  to  leave  it.  The  room  in  which 
we  have  sat  day  by  day  for  years,  —  rise  to  quit  it  lor 
the  last  time,  and  we  j-liall  see  something  about  its  pro- 
portions, its  aspect,  that  we  never  saw  before.  The  little 
walk  we  have  paced  hundreds  of  times,  —  how  different 
every  evergreen  beside  it  will  seem,  when  we  pace  it 
silently,  knowing  that   we  shall  do  so  no  more! 

Here   is  an   apt   and   happy  comparison:  — 

When  the  lofty  and  barren  mountain,  says  a  legend  I  have  some- 
wliere  read,  was  lirst  ujjheaved  into  the  sky,  and  from  its  elevation 
looked  down  on  the  plains  below,  and  saw  the  valley  and  the  less 
elevated  hills  covered  with  verdure  and  fruitful  trees,  it  sent  up  to 
Brahma  something  like  a  niurnuir  of  complaint,  "  Why  thus  barren? 
Why  these  scarred  and  naked  sides  exposed  to  the  eye  of  man?" 
A.nd  Brahma  answered,  "  The  very  light  shall  clothe  thee,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  passing  cloud  shall  be  as  a  royal  mantle.  More  ver- 
dure would  be  less  light.     Thou  shalt  share  in  the  azure  of  heaven, 


310  TIIORNDALE;   OK,   THE 

and  the  youngest  and  whitest  cloud  of  a  summer  day  shall  nestle  iu 
thy  bosom.     Tliou  beionyest  half  to' us." 

So  was  the  mountain  dowered.  And  so  too  have  the  loftiest  minds 
of  men  been  in  all  ages  dowered.  To  lower  elevations  have  beeu 
given  the  pleasant  verdure,  the  vine,  and  the  olive.  Light,  light 
alone,  and  the  deep  shadow  of  the  passing  cloud,  —  these  are  the  gifts 
of  the  prophets  of  the  race. 

Tlionulale  felt  strongly  what  every  reflective  man  must 
feel,  that  the  ordinary  arguments  for  the  immortality  of 
the  soul,  drawn  from  the  light  of  nature,  are  quite  in- 
sufficient and  unsatisfactory.  It  is  upon  entirely  ditFerent 
grounds,  and  these  grounds  partaking  often  but  little  of 
the  nature  of  argument,  tliat  the  belief  in  the  doctrine 
really  rests.  Still  the  argument  tills  the  page  ;  and  is 
appended  to  the  doctrine  much  as  in  cheap  Gothic  build- 
ings a  buttress  is  added  to  a  wall  which  does  not  need  its 
support,  because  it  at  least  looks  as  if  it  supported  the 
wall.      Thorndale's    illustration   is  this  :  — 

In  old  wood-tuts  one  sometimes  sees  a  vessel  in  full  sail  upon  the 
ocean,  and  perilled  aloft  upon  the  clouds  are  a  number  of  infant 
clierubs,  with  puiicd-out  cheeks,  blowing  at  the  sails.  The  swelling 
canvas  is  evidently  filled  by  a  stronger  wind  than  these  infant  cherubs, 
sitting  in  the  clouds,  could  supply.  They  do  not  fill  the  sail;  but  they 
were  thought  to  fill  up  tlic  picture  prettily  enough. 

In  truth,  the  u>ual  arguments  for  immortality  are  quite 
futile  :  none  more  so  than  that  founded  upon  the  imma- 
teriality of  the  soul.  The  soid's  immateriality  is  assumed 
to  be  proved  by  a  manifest  petitio  priricipii,  to  use  the 
logician's  phrase.  The  soul  is  immaterial,  we  are  told, 
because  it  thinks  and  feels  ;  and  matter  cannot  think  and 
feel.  But  if  the  soul  be  material,  why  then  matter  can 
think  and  feel.  Thorndale  indicates  as  follows  the  foun- 
dation of  his  own  belief:  — 
I  think  the  contemplation  of  God  brings  with  it  the  faith  in  immor 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  311 

tality.  Tlie  mere  imperfections  of  our  happiness  here,  our  blundering 
lives  and  inequitable  societies,  our  unrewarded  virtues  and  unavenged 
crimes,  our  present  need  of  tlie  great  threat  of  future  punis.inieuts,  — 
these  do  not,  in  my  estimation,  form  safe  grounds  to  proceed  upon. 
They  enter  largely  as  grounds  of  a  popular  faith ;  but  it  would  be  un- 
wise to  build  upon  them:  because  to  rest  on  such  arguments  would 
lead  us  to  the  conclusion,  that  in  proportion  as  society  advances  to 
p°rfcc(ion,  and  men  are  more  wise  and  just,  in  the  same  proportinn 
will  they  have  less  presumption  for  the  hope  of  immortality. 

We  confess  tliat  we  stand  in  no  gfeat  fear  of  this  last 
suggestion.  Tiiere  is  little  prospect,  as  yet,  of  this  world 
becoming  too  good  to  need  another.  We  need  now,  and 
we  shall  need  for  many  a  year,  all  the  comfort  and  help 
we  can  draw  from  "  the  world  that  sets  this  right." 

Our  readers  will  thank  us  for  extracting  the  following 
passage  :  — 

A  fond  mother  loses  her  infant.  What  more  tender  than  the  hope 
she  has  to  meet  it  again  in  heaven?  Does  she  really,  then,  exj)cct  to 
find  a  little  child  in  heaven?  some  angel-nursling,  that  she  may  eter- 
nally take  to  her  bosom,  fondle,  feed,  and  caress?  Oh,  do  not  ask 
her!  I  would  not  have  her  ask  herself.  The  consolatory  vision 
springs  spontaneously  from  the  mother's  grief.  It  is  nature's  own 
remedy.  She  gave  that  surpassing  love,  and  a  grief  as  poignant  must 
follow.  She  cannot  take  away  the  grief:  she  half  transforms  it  to  a 
hope. 

It  is  indeed  quite  true,  that  in  the  attempt  to  define 
with  precision  the  consolations  and  hopes  which  Chris- 
tianity affords  us  witli  respect  to  our  departed  friend^,  we 
sometimes  only  destroy  what  we  desired  to  gra-p.  And 
it  would  be  hard  for  us  to  say  exactly  how  and  in  what 
form  we  hope  to  meet  again  the  dear  ones  who  have 
gone  before  us.  Perhaps  Archbishop  Whately  is  right, 
when  he  suggests  as  one  possible  reason  why  revelation 
leaves  the  details  so  little  filed  in  of  the  picture  of  im- 
mortality which  it  draws,  that  some  margin  raay  be  left 


312  THORNDALE;   OR,  THE 

for  the  weakne-s  of  liiiman  thonjrbt  and  wish  ;  and  that 
in  matters  be>ide  tlie  great  essential  centre-truth,  each 
may  believe  or  may  hope  that  which  he  would  love  the 
best.  And  in  the  matter  of  a  little  child's  loss,  we  know 
that  two  quite  opposite  beliefs  have  been  cherished.  For 
oui'selves,  it  seems  more  natural  to  think  of  the  little 
thing  as  it  left  us  ;  we  believe  that,  in  the  case  of  most 
of  us,  the  little  brother  or  sister  that  died  long  ago,  re- 
mains in  remembrance  the  same  young  thing  forever. 
Many  years  are  passed,  and  we  have  grown  older  and 
more  careworn  since  our  last  sister  died  ;  l)ut  she  never 
grows  older  with  the  passing  years  ;  and  if  God  spares 
us  to  fourscore,  we  never  shall  think  of  her  as  other  than 
the  youthful  creature  she  faded.  Still  there  is  pathos 
and  natuie  in  Dickens's  description,  how  the  father  and 
mother  who  lost  in  early  childhood  one  of  two  twin  sis- 
ters, always  pictured  to  themselves,  year  after  year,  the 
dead  child  growing  in  the  world  beyond  the  grave,  in 
equal  progress  as  the  living  child  grew  on  earth.  And 
Longfellow,  in  his  touching  poem  of  Resignation,  sug- 
gests a  like  idea  :  — 

Day  alter  day,  wc  think  what  she  is  doing 

h\  tliose  bright  realms  of  air: 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walii  witii  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

Tlie  bond  which  nature  gives. 
Thinking  tliat  our  renu-nibrance,  though  unspoken. 

May  reach  lier  wliere  slie  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her; 

For  when,  with  raptures  wild. 
In  our  embraces  we  af^ain  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child. 


CONFLICT   OF  OPINIONS.  313 

It  is  worthy  of  notice,  how  the  death  of  little  children 
has  formed  the  subject  of  several  of  the  mos^t  touching 
poems  in  the  language.  Only  those  could  have  written 
them  who  have  children  of  their  own ;  and  few  but  par- 
ents can  fully  enter  into  their  pathos.  We  may  remind 
our  readers  of  Mr.  Moultrie's  best  poem,  "  The  Three 
Sons;"  of  Mrs.  Soutliey's  (Caroline  Bowles)  beautiful 
picture  of  an  infant's  death-bed  ;  and  in  a  volume  lately 
published  by  Gerald  Massey,  natural  feeling  has  kept 
affectation  from  spoiling  a  most  touching  piece,  called 
"  The  IMother's  Idol  Broken."  And  no  one  needs  to  be 
reminded  of  what  it  is  that  has  afforded  scope  for  the 
most  pathetic  touches  of  Dickens  and  Mrs.  Beecher 
Stovve. 

Thorndale  puts  a  somewhat  startling  question  as  to  the 
extent  of  the  gift  of  immortality. 

Wliy  must  I  except  tlie  alternative  —  all  or  none?  Why  every  Ilun 
and  Scytliian,  or  else  no  Socrates  or  Plato?  Why  must  every  corrupt 
thing  be  brought  again  to  lite,  or  else  all  hope  be  denied  to  tlie  good 
and  the  great,  the  loving  and  the  pious?  Why  must  I  measure- my 
hopes  by  the  hopes  1  would  assign  to  the  most  weak  or  wicked  of  the 
race?  Let  the  jioor  idiot,  let  the  vile  Tiberius,  be  extinct  forever: 
must  I  too,  and  all  these  thoughts  that  stir  in  me,  perish? 

Probably  Thorndale  was  not  aware  that  this  notion, 
which  he  throws  out  on  merely  philosophical  grounds,  is 
on(!  which,  in  a  modilicd  form,  has  been  suggested,  if  not 
maintained,  upon  theological  principles,  by  the  mo>t  inde- 
pendent ;uid  original  theologuui  of  the  age  —  we  mean 
the  Archbishoi)  of  Dublin.  Dr.  Whately  has  proposed 
it  iw  a  subject  lor  in(juiry,  whetlier  llio>e  passages  ot 
Scripture  which  describe  the  everlasting  destruction  of 
the  finally  impenitent,  may  not  be  justly  interpreted  as 
signifying  their  total  annihilation  ;  and  thus,  whether  evil 


314  THORNDALE  :    OR.  THE 

and  suffering  may  not  entirely  cease  to  be  in  God's  uni- 
verse, not  by  an  iniiver.-al  resloration  of  all  things  to  the 
good  and  right,  but  by  the  total  disappearance  of  that 
which  has  been  marred  [)ast  tlie  mending?  No  doubl, 
there  is  sonietiiing  unutterably  appalling  in  the  thought 
of  a  toul  in  everlasting  woe  ;  no  doubt,  to  our  finite 
minds,  it  appears  the  most  con.^istent  with  the  divine 
glory  and  happiness,  that  a  time  should  come  when  there 
should  be  no  more  pain,  sin,  and  death,  anywhere ;  but 
the  Chrialian  dares  not  add  to  or  take  from  that  whicli  is 
written;  and  few,  we  think,  can  read  the  words  even  of 
the  Saviour  himself  as  bearing  any  other  meaning  than 
one.  And  as  lor  the  difficulty  suggested  by  Thorndale, 
we  confess  we  can  discern  in  it  very  little  force.  It  is  a 
humble  thing,  always  and  everywhere,  to  be  a  man  : 
whether  the  man  be  Plato  or  the  Hun.  We  do  not  look 
for  immortality  on  tlie  ground  that  we  deserve  it,  or  tlial 
we  are  fit  for  it.  And  although  there  may  be  truth  in 
Judge  Ilaliliurtoirs  bitter  remark,  that  there  is  a  greater 
difference  between  some  men  and  some  other  men,  tiian 
there  is  between  these  other  men  and  some  monkeys; 
still,  in  looking  down  from  the  divine  elevation,  we  be- 
lieve that  the  distances  parting  the  lowest  and  higliest, 
the  worst  and  best,  must  seem  very  small.  Look  down 
from  the  top  of  Ben  Nevis,  and  the  tuft  of  heather  which 
is  a  dozen  inches  higher  than  the  heather  round  it,  diff(,'rs 
not  appreciably  from  tiie  general  level.  Nor  should  it  be 
forgotten,  that  in  the  lowest  and  the  worst,  there  is  a 
potentiality  of  becoming  good  and  noble  under  a  certain 
influence  which  philosojjhy  does  not  know  of,  but  whose 
reality  and  power  we  are  content  to  test  by  the  logic  of 
induction.  The  coarse  lump  of  ironstone  is  in  its  essence 
the  self-same  thing  as  the  hair-spring  of  a  watch. 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  315 

We  pass  to  the  second  part  of  Thorndale's  manuscript, 
the  Retrospect,  which  will  Jbe  much  more  interesting  to 
ordinary  readers  than  the  first  book.  And  here  we  find 
a  gracet\d  and  beautiful  sketch  of  the  history  of  his  life, 
from  the  dawn  of  consciousness  down  to  the  time  when 
he  came  to  Villa  Scarpa  to  die.  He  was  the  happy  child 
of  a  gentle  and  loving  mothei",  over  whom  early  widow- 
hood had  cast  a  shade  of  melancholy.  His  father  he  never 
knew.  A  poor  lieutenant  in  the  navy,  he  died  of  fever 
caught  as  his  ship  lay  rotting  off  the  coast  of  Africa 
The  mother's  piety  was  deep,  and  her  faith  undoubting ; 
she  knew  nothing  of  the  world  beyond  her  own  little 
daisied  lawn.  And  the  remembrance  of  the  prayer  she 
early  taught  her  child  to  utter,  has  inspired  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  passages  in  English  literature  :  — 

Very  singular  and  very  pleasing  to  me  is  the  remembrance  of  that 
simple  piety  of  (.liiliJliood ;  of  tliat  prayer  which  was  s:iid  so  punctu- 
ally niglit  and  morning,  kneeling  by  the  bedside.  What  did  I  think 
of,  guiltless  then  of  mctaiihysics,  — what  image  did  I  bring  before  my 
mind  as  I  repeated  my  learnt  petition  with  scrupulous  fidelity?  Did 
I  see  some  venerable  Form  bending  down  to  listen?  Did  He  cease  to 
look  and  listen  when  I  had  said  it  all?  Half  prayer,  half  lesson,  how 
difficult  it  is  now  to,summon  it  back  again !  But  this  I  know,  tiiat  the 
bedside  where  I  knelt  to  this  morning  and  evening  devotion  became 
sacred  to  me  as  an  altar.  1  smile  as  I  recall  the  innocent  su])erstition 
which  grew  up  in  me,  that  the  prayer  must  be  said  kiwelinij  Jusi  there. 
If,  some  cold  winter's  night,  I  had  crept  into  bed,  thinking  to  repeat 
the  petition  from  the  warm  nest  itself,  it  would  not  do!  —  it  was  felt  in 
this  court  of  conscience  to  be  'an  insufficient  performance:'  there  vnxa 
no  sleep  to  be  had  till  I  had  risen,  and,  bedgowiied  as  I  was,  knelt  at 
the  accustomed  place,  and  said  it  all  over  again  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end.  To  this  day,  I  never  see  the  little  clean  white  bed  in  which 
a  child  is  to  sleep,  but  I  see  also  the  figure  of  a  child  kneeling  in  prayer 
at  its  side.  And  I,  for  the  moment,  am  that  child.  No  high  altar  in 
the  most  sumptuous  church  in  Christeiulom  could  prompt  my  knee  to 
bend  like  that  snow-white  coverlet   tucked  in  for  a  child's  slumber. 

The   mother  early  died  ;  and   her  brother    a  baronet. 


SI 6  THORNDALE  ;    OR,  THE 

wlio  dwelt  in  a  noble  house  standing  in  a  fine  old  English 
park,  adopted  llic  de-olate  cliild  as  liis  own.  Grand  were 
the  trees  and  fair  the  shi-ubberies  of  Sutton  INIanor  ;  but 
its  great  attraction  to  Thorndale  was  his  little  cousin 
Winifred,  lie  loved  her,  he  tells  us,  before  he  knew 
what  love  was,  and  long  before  he  knew  the  vast  worldly 
distance  tliat  parted  even  such  near  relations.  Lady 
Moberly,  Winifred's  mother,  was  a  lady  at  once  ultra- 
fashionable  and  ultra-evangelical.  She  was  one  of  those 
of  whom  the  sarcastic  Saturday  Review  declai-ed  that  the 
names  of  their  great  men  must  be  written  alike  in  the 
Peerage  and  in  the  Book  of  Life.  Thorndale  was  shortly 
jdaced  under  the  charge  of  a  country  clergyman,  to  be 
prepared  for  Oxford.  Here  he  had  one  fellow-pupil, 
Ijuxmore,  a  youth  passionately  devoted  to  poetry.  And 
his  tutor's  library  furnished  an  endless  store  of  poetry, 
theology,  and  philosophy,  which  were  all  devom'ed  with 
equal  avidity.  When  tlie  vacation  approached,  Thorn- 
dale was  somewhat  surprised  by  receiving  from  Lady 
Moberly  a  formal  invitation  to  Sutton  Manor.  He  had 
counted,  as  a  matter  of  course,  upon  spending  the  vaca- 
tion there.  But  her  ladyship  was  cautious;  and  her  letter 
contained  a  postscript,  cautioning  Tiiorndale  to  beware 
of  a  certain  fairy  who  haunted  the  shrubbery  in  which 
he  was  accustomed  to  walk.  lie  learned  the  meaning 
of  the  postscript  too  soon.  His  cousin  was  more  charm- 
ing than  ever  ;  but  his  love,  hopeless,  yet  unconquerable, 
was  on  his  part  "a  mere  wor.-liip,  where  even  the  prayer 
was  not  to  be  spoken."  And  tiiis  j)assion  served  to  ex- 
tinguish all  ambition.  He  entered  the  cloisters  of  Mag- 
dalen, he  tells  us, — 

as  indifforent  to  tlie  world  as  any  monk  of  tlie  fourteenth  centary 
could  have  been.     Academical  honors,  or  the  greater  distinctions  in 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  317 

life  to  which  they  prepare  the  way,  had  no  sort  of  charm  for  me.  Tha 
'  daily  bread  '  was  secured;  and  neither  law,  physic,  nor  divinity  could 
have  given  me  my  Winifred. 

A  life  of  mere  reflection,  then,  was  to  be  his  portion. 
Ills  over-sensitive  mind  never  recovered  the  frost  of  that 
early  disappointment.  Is  it  too  much  to  say  that  it  re- 
suhs  from  tiie  morbid  body,  from  the  weakness  of  physical 
nature,  when  trouble  and  .-onow,  no  matter  how  heavy, 
borne  in  early  youth,  ca>t  their  shadow  over  all  after- 
years  ?  What  a  vast  deal  a  healthy  man  can  "get  over!" 
True,  as  beaiitil'ul,  are  the  words  of  Philip  van  Artevelde, 
in  Mr.  Taylor's  noble  play:  — 

Well,  well,  —  she's  gone, 
And  I  have  tamed  my  sorrow.     Pain  and  grief 
Are  transitory  things,  no  less  than  joj', 
And  though  they  leave  us  not  the  men  we  were. 
Yet  they  do  leave  us.     You  behold  me  here, 
A  man  bereaved,  with  soinetliiiig  of  a  blight 
Upon  the  early  blossoms  of  his  lite. 
And  its  lirst  verdure, —  having  not  the  less 
A  living  root,  and  drawing  fmni  the  earth 
Its  vital  juices,  from  the  air  its  powers: 
And  surely  as  man's  health  and  strength  are  whole, 
His  appetites  re-germinate,  bis  heart 
Ee-opens,  and  his  objects  and  desires 
Shoot  up  renewed.  1 

How  many  twice-married  men  aiul  women  can  testify 
to  the  truth  of  Artevelde's  philosophy  !  Out  of  a  ro- 
mance, it  takes  very  much  to  kill  a  man,  —  uidess,  in- 
deed, consumption  lias  marked  him  from  his  birth,  and 
his  phy.^ical  constitution  lacks  the  reacting  spring.  But 
]\Ir.  Smith  has  made  his  hero  feel  and  act  just  as  it  was 
fit  under  the  conditions  given.  He  became  a  solitary 
dreamer  ;  and  though  feeling  the  attraction  which  draws 
1  Tay.or's  Pliilij)  van  Artevelde,  Second  Part,  Act  iii.,  Scene  ii. 


318  THORNDALE  ;    OR,   THE 

the  moth  to  the  flame,  yet  at  vacation  times,  instead  of 
going  lo  Sutton  Manor,  he  betook  himself  to  Wales  or 
Cnmberhmd,  to  "read."  There  lie  read,  thought,  wrote, 
destroyed.  He  mused  deeply  on  the  constitution  of  soci- 
ety :  he  longed  for  a  time  when  manual  labor  should  not 
be  deemed  inconsistent  with  refinement  and  intelligence. 
l>ut  he  found  his  theory  crumble  at  the  touch  of  fact. 

As  I  inarched  triumphantly  alonfc,  I  came  to  a  field  where  men  were 
|;louf(liiiig.  I  had  often  watclied  the  ijlouj;limaii  as  he  steps  on  steadily, 
lioldiii;^  the  share  down  in  its  place  in  the  soil,  and  felt  curiuns  to  try 
the  experiment  myself.  This  time,  as  tiie  countryman  who  approached 
me  had  a  good-natured  aspect,  I  asked  him  to  let  me  take  his  place 
within  the  stilts.  He  did  so.  I  did  not  give  him  quite  the  occasion  for 
merriment  which  I  saw  he  anticipated;  I  held  down  the  share,  and 
kept  it  in  its  due  position.  But  I  liad  no  conception  of  the  effort  it  re- 
quired—  which,  at  least,  it  cost  me.  Wlien  I  resigned  my  place,  my 
iirmi  trembled,  my  hands  l)urned,  my  brain  throbbed;  the  whole  frame 
was  shaken.  And  something,  too,  was  shaken  in  the  framework  of  my 
speculations.  The  feasibility  of  uniting  witli  labors  such  as  these  much 
of  the  culture  we  call  intellectual,  was  not  so  clear  to  me  as  it  was  an 
hour  ago.  I  walked  along  less  triumphantly,  maintaining  a  sort  of 
prudent  silence  with  myself. 

Tliorndale  all  over  !  P'asil^'  driven  by  some  little  jar, 
even  fi'om  a  cherished  purpose  or  belief.  All  physical 
constitution  again.  In  the  days  when  manual  labor  and 
mental  cultivation  are  combined,  men  like  Thorndale 
mu<t  be  watchmakers  and  printers :  men  with  more 
bone  and  sinew  must  go  to  field-work.  But  who  does 
not  remember  the  diary  of  Elihu  Burritt,  when  teaching 
him.self  half  a  dozen  languages,  with  its  constantly  re- 
curring entries  of  "Forged  twelve  hours  to-day"  — 
"  Forged  fourteen  hours  to-day  "  —  the  brawny  black- 
smith, with  his  fore-hammer  and  his  Hebrew  lexicon 
side  by  side  ? 

Very   frankly  and  without  reserve,  Thorndale  shows 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  319 

US  how  his  opinions  on  society  swayed  to  and  fro.  He 
went  to  see  Manchester,  and  mourned  to  think  how, 
"  for  leave  to  live  in  habitations,  where  air  and  li<?ht, 
beauty  and  fragrance,  are  shut  out  for  ever,  men  and 
women  are  toiling  as  no  other  animal  on  tlie  face  of  the 
earth  toils."  And,  caring  little  for  conventional  propri- 
eties, he  sits  down  in  London  on  the  sleps  of  a  church 
—  it  was  in  Regent-street  —  amid  the  offscourings  of 
the  population,  and  contemplated  society  from  this  new 
point  of  view.  It  looked  very  different  !  He  heard  the 
t.tifled  mutterings  of  the  deadly  hate  which  the  very  low- 
est class  bear  to  those  above  them.  Tlie  ground  under- 
neath us,  in  truth  is  mined  :  the  mine  is  charged.  Is 
not  the  hatred  natural  ?  We  do  not  ask  whether  it  is 
right. 

Without  a  doubt,  we  of  the  pavement,  if  we  had  our  will,  would  stop 
those  smooth-rolling  chariots,  with  their  liveried  attendants  (how  we 
hate  tho.se  clean  and  well-fed  lackej-s!),  would  open  the  carri;ige-door, 
and  bid  the  riders  come  down  to  us!  —  come  down  to  share  —  good 
heaven!  what? — our  rufhanage,  our  garbage,  the  general  scramble, 
the  general  filth. 

Walking  another  day  down  Regent-street,  he  passes 
an  open  carriage  standing  at  a  shop-door.  Seated  alone 
in  it  is  —  Winifred!  He  avoids  recognition,  and  hur- 
ries away.  Soon  he  slackens  his  speed  —  stops  —  turns, 
walks  back,  slowly,  rapidly,  breathlessly  !  Tlie  carriage 
was  gone.     True  to  the  life  I 

He  left  Oxford  at  last,  and  returned  to  Sutton  ]Manor. 
"  It  was  the  old  story  of  the  moth  and  the  flame."  He 
resolved  that  for  a  month  his  heart  should  have  its  way ; 
and  rowing  with  Winifred  on  the  river,  wandering  with 
her  in  the  shrubbery,  watching  the  sun  go  down,  he  had 
his   "  month    of  elysium."     All    his    philosophy   was    in 


320  THORNDALK;    OK,   THE 

tliose  days  full  of  hope.  Ua  wondered  at  the  greatness 
of  tlie  human  capdcity  for  happiness.  At  lenglh  he 
broke  hurriedly  away,  and  hastened  to  Loch  Lomond. 
We  liave  already  seen  how  he  returned,  and  with  what 

Then  he  became  a  wanderer.  He  tells  us  he  never 
;eased  to  think,  but  "  a  despondency  crept  from  his  life 
into  his  philosophy."  He  went  to  Germany,  Switzer- 
land, Italy  —  the  accustomed  route  —  and  learned  to 
appreciate  the  diversity  there  is  in  human  life.  On  the 
banks  of  the  lake  of  Lucci'ne  he  met  his  Utopian  friend, 
Clarence,  whom  he  had  known  at  Oxford;  and  they  spent 
long  days  in  varied  talk  together.  Clarence  dwelt  much 
upon  the  misery  of  the  better  or  the  middle  classes.  He 
thought  it  exceeds  that  of  the  poor  wrelciies  on  the  Re- 
gent-street steps.  AVhat  ceaseless  and  life-wearing  anx- 
iety and  care  there  are  in  the  hearts  of  most  educated 
men  !  Clarence  did  not  wonder  that  men  go  mad.  As 
life  goes  against  them,  as  the  income  proves  insufficient, 
as  the  ex[)enses  increase,  as  impending  calamity  ever  jars 
miserably  upon  the  shaken  nerves,  and  as  the  mind  is 
day  by  day  i-ackcd  by  ceaseless  fears,  the  only  wonder 
is  that  Reason  does  not  oftener  fbr.-ake  her  seat,  totter, 
and  fall  ! 

On  some  futile  pretence  of  seeing  his  friend,  Luxmore, 
the  poet,  Thorndale  returned  to  England.  Luxmore  had 
published,  and  failed.  Thorndale  found  him  in  a  Spe- 
cial Pleader's  office,  studying  for  the  bar.  Luxmore  held 
steadily  to  his  books  of  Practice,  till,  in  an  evil  hour  (he 
luid  parted  with  all  his  poets),  he  bought  at  a  stall  a 
cheap  edition  of  Shelley.  It  wakened  the  old  spirit. 
He  would  emigrate.  He  would  clear  the  forest  and  the 
jungle.     He  would  grow  corn  by  the  Mississippi.     But 


COiVFLICT   OF  OPINIONS.  321 

he  must  see  the  South  American  mountains  first ;  and 
so  he  sailed  for  Rio  Janeiro.  Thorndale  greatly  doubted 
to  the  last  whether  he  had  ever  "  worked  his  way  round" 
to  the  farm  he  had  talked  of.  Luxmore's  character  and 
career  are  ably  and  skilfully  sketched  ;  but  we  cannot 
say  that  we  are  especially  struck  by  the  specimens  given 
of  his  poetry. 

In  the  great  steamer,  as  it  lay  off  Southampton, 
Thorndale  bade  his  friend  farewell.  He  had  loved  him 
he  tells  us,  as  a  brother,  and  an  elder  brother.  Thorn- 
dale's  pliant  nature  was  plastic  in  those  robust  hands. 
Sadly  depressed,  he  betook  himself  to  a  little  cottage  at 
Shanklin,  once  more  alone  but  for  the  old  companion  — 
the  box  of  books.  It  was  Thorndale's  especial  misfor- 
tune that,  with  a  native  craving  for  some  attached  com- 
panion to  dwell  under  the  same  roof,  he  was  by  circum- 
stances always  doomed  to  days  of  solitude.  But  a  new 
interest  now  arose.  Symptoms  of  disease,  disregarded 
in  the  excitement  of  the  last  days  with  Luxmore,  now 
forced  themselves  on  his  attention.  Some  business  mat- 
ter compelled  him  to  write  to  his  uncle,  thus  informing 
his  relations  at  Sutton  Manor,  for  the  first  time,  that  he 
had  returned  to  England.  Kind  messages  and  regrets 
came  in  reply  :  Winifred  especially  chiding  him  for  his 
unsocial  habits.  It  seemed  "  a  wild  strain  of  irony." 
Yet  the  few  lines  she  wrote  wakened  old  feelings,  never 
quite  asleep.  Surely  she  would  come  and  see  the  poor 
invalid?  So  strong  did  the  impression  grow,  that,  catch- 
ing sight  one  day  of  a  female  figure  in  the  garden,  bend- 
ing over  the  flowers,  he  felt  sure  it  must  be  Winifred  ; 
and  watched  breathlessly,  with  violently-beating  heart, 
till  she  turned  her  face,  and  the  delusion  was  dispelled. 
Still,  for  days  he  cherished  the  vain  expectation  that  she 
21 


322  THOKNDALE  ;    OR,   THE 

would   come,  and  restore  him,  by  her  very  presence,  to 
life,  and  liope,  and  faith.      That  was  all  he  needed. 

If  I  could  see  thee,  'twould  be  well  with  me! 
Now  there  came  consultations  witli  tliis  and  that  great 
physician  :  and  soon  the  death-warrant  decidedly  ex- 
pressed. Then  was  a  first  moment  of  confusion  and 
agony  ;  and  tlien  followed  an  indescribable  calm.  It 
was  now  all  smooth  water  before  him.  He  betook  him- 
self to  his  last  retreat  at  Villa  Scarpa  ;  but  he  did  not 
see  Winifred  before  he  left  Enjrland  for  ever.  Kind 
letters  followed  him  from  her  mother.  Lady  Moberly 
would  come  over  to  take  care  of  him,  with  a  doctor  in 
either  hand.  Of  course  she  nevtn-  came.  And  now  the 
last  days  are  gliding  over  swiftly  :  — - 

The  day  is  never  long.  I  have,  indeed,  ceased  to  take  note  of  the 
measurement  of  time.  One  hour  is  more  genial  than  another;  thought 
flows  more  rapidly,  or  these  damaged  lungs  breathe  somewhat  more 
freely  at  one  time  than  another:  but  where  the  present  hour  stands  in 
the  series  which  makes  up  day  and  night,  what  the  clock  reports  of 
the  progress  of  time,  I  have  ceased  to  ask  myself.  There  is  but  one 
hour  that  the  bell  has  to  strike  for  me. 

Yet  life  is  not  quite  over,  even  after  Thorndale  has 
ibiind  his  last  harbor  of  refuge.  Present  incident  proves 
the  completion  of  past  remembrance.  The  Third  liook 
of  the  manuscript  volume  is  entitled  "  Cyril,  or  the  Mod- 
ern Cistercian." 

In  watching  a  little  point  of  beacli  which  was  visible 
from  his  terrace,  Thorndale  had  often  been  struck  by  the 
figure  of  a  youthful  monk,  wearing  tlie  white  habit  of  the 
Cistercian  order,  who  passed  slowly  by  the  sea-margin, 
and  sometimes  paused  in  thought.  Thorndale  had  con- 
structed a  whole  theory  of  his  thinking  and  history,  and 
began  to  feel  towards  him  as  towards  a  friend.    At  length, 


CONFLICT   OF  OPINIONS.  323 

in  his  ride,  Tlioiiiuale  passed  two  monks,  one  of  whom 
hrtd  sunk  exhausted  by  the  wayside.  He  conveyed  tlie 
monk  to  the  monastery  in  liis  carriage,  and  recognized 
in  him  the  Cistercian  so  often  watched.  A  furtlier  sur- 
prise awaited  him.  On  entering  the  Cistercian's  cell,  he 
recognized  in  him  an  old  acquaintance  —  Cyril.  Cyril 
had  entered  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  through  the 
gate  of  the  monastery.  He  had  sought  a  peaceful,  pious, 
and  harmonious  life  within  those  walls  ;  and  he  assured 
Tliorndale  that  he  had  found  all  he  sought.  His  history 
had  been  a  tragical  one.  Brought  up  in  a  pious  family, 
he  had  been  assailed  by  sceptical  doubts.  His  father 
was  an  enthusiast  for  reformatory  punishment.  The 
house  was  full  of  books  on  the  subject.  And  from  these 
Cyril  imbibed  the  notion  that  one  grand  end  of  all  pun- 
ishment should  be  the  reformation  of  the  ci'iminal  him- 
self. To  punish  for  mere  revenge  was  unchristian  and 
irrational.  How,  then,  of  God's  punishments  inflicted  in 
a  future  life  ?  The  i)ious  fatlier  ap])eared  to  claim  for 
the  human  legislator  principles  more  noble  and  eidight- 
ened  than  those  he  attributed  to  the  Divine.  Eternal 
punishment  aims  not  at  the  reformation  of  the  guilty. 
Cyril  was  plunged  into  all  the  miseries  of  doubt.  And 
brought  up  in  the  conviction  that  unbelief  was  the  ex- 
treniest  sin,  his  anguish  was  indescribable.  He  became 
restless,  gloomy,  morose.  And  so,  leaving  Oxford,  Tliorn- 
dale left  him. 

Tliorndale  was  at  Dolgelly,  in  Wale<,  when  he  learned 
that  Cyril  was  at  Barmouth,  and  rode  over  to  see  him. 
He  met  him,  just  come  off  the  water.  Cyril's  joy  at  the 
meeting  was  extreme.  They  sat  cheerfully  down  to  sup- 
per. Cyril  never  had  been  so  gay.  At  length,  absently, 
he  dr".vv  from  the  pocket  of  his  rough  greatcoat  a  large 


324  THORNDALE  ;    01!,   TIIK 

tna^s  of  ii'in,  (lie  fluke  of  an  old  jinchor.  At  the  sight  of 
ii,  tijdd(Mily  rcfullecling  liiniself,  he  Imr.-t  into  a  violent 
ilood  of  tears.  He  confessed  to  liis  friend  that  an  acci- 
dent only  had  prevented  him  from  throwing  himself  into 
the  sea,  during  the  sail  from  which  he  had  just  returned, 
lie  had  gone  out  witli  that  purpose,  driven  to  it  by  his 
agony  of  doubt,  and  (strange  as  it  may  seem)  by  the  tear 
of  death.  His  fear  of  death  was  such,  that  he  longed  to 
make  a  plunge  and  have  it  over.  And  amid  all  the  mis- 
eiy  of  his  scepticism,  he  says,  surely  with  sad  trutli :  — 

I  am  quoted  by  my  family  and  my  friends  as  a  monster  of  impiety 
and  guilt.  I  am  frowned  upon,  avoided,  expostulated  with,  —  and 
pious  ministers  reprove  me  —  for  intellectual  pride! 

We  can  well  believi^  that  a  pious  father  or  mother, 
deeply  loving  their  son,  woidd  yet  rather  see  him  laid 
in  his  codin  than  see  him  turn  doubtiul  of  their  own 
simple  faith.  AViiat  malaily  makes  a  breach  so  total  — 
what  leads  to  a  dooirt  so  fearful  — as  unbelief?  But  let 
it  be  remembered  that  in  many  cases  it  is  a  malady,  a 
disease  for  which  a  man  is  no  more  guilty  than  for  con- 
sumption or  for  typhus.  No  doubt  there  is  a  wilful 
blindness,  a  preference  of  falsehood  to  truth,  a  flip|)ant, 
hateful  self-sufficiency,  in  the  case  of  some  :  and  let 
liiese  be  held  responsible.  Hut  surely  there  are  earnest 
pirits,  battling  for  the  truth  —  shedding  tears  of  blood 
because  they  cannot  believe,  though  they  long  to  do  so. 
Let  us  be  thankful  that  in  almost  every  such  case  tJie 
disease  is  a  temporar}'  one.  It  will  wear  away.  "  Unto 
the  upright  there  ariselh  light  in  darkness."  Unl)elief 
is  a  crisis  which  must  be  passed  through  by  the  think- 
ing hmnan  mind,  as  certainly  as  measles  and  whooping- 
cough  by  the  human  body.  Of  course  a  blockhead,  who 
never   thinks  at  all,   will  not  be   troubled   by   it.     The 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  325 

humble  and  earnest  man  comes  out  of  it,  with  a  faith 
grounded  so  deeply  that  it  can  never  be  shaken  more. 
Let  us  pity,  then,  the  young  doubter:  k-t  us  aid  him  by 
God's  blessing:  let  us  not  accuse  him,  and  so  perhaps 
drive  him  to  despair.  I'lie  guilty  unbelief  is  that  of  the 
mau  who  knows  in  his  conscience  that  he  would  rather 
not  believe.  There  is  another  kind  of  w^ant  of  faith 
which  the  Almighty  will  not  condeuui.  It  is  that  which 
utters  the  creed  and  the  prayer  together :  "  Lord,  I  be- 
lieve :  help  Thou  mine  unbelief." 

The  next  morning  Thorndale  and  Cyril  were  to  have 
breakfasted  together.  But  when  Thorndale  went  to  his 
lodgings,  he  was  gone,  without  a  word  ;  and  they  met  no 
moi-e  till  they  met  in  the  Cistercian  monastery. 

After  this  meeting,  Cyril  sometimes  visited  Thorndale 
at  the  Villa  Scai-pa.  Tliorndale  did  not  seek  any  ac- 
count of  the  process  by  which  the  youth  who  could  believe 
nothing,  had  passed  into  the  monk  who  believed  every- 
thing. No  doubt  it  would  have  been  the  usual  story  of 
reaction  commenced,  and  then  a  positive  appetite  for 
belief  growing  upon  the  man.  In  any  case,  belief  had 
brought  Cyril  peace  and  rest.  And  the  doctrine  of  pur- 
gatory had  been  to  him  a  favorable  distinction  of  the 
Church  of  Rome.  It  represented  a  reformatory  nature 
even  in  punishment  beyond  the  grave ;  and  the  young 
enthusiast  fancied  that  a  special  revelation  had  been 
vouchsafed  to  him  by  the  Saviour,  that  every  soul  that 
God  has  made  should  in  some  way  be  sav(;d  at  last.  Anil 
coming  not  frequently,  stealing  quietly  up  to  tlie  terrace 
with  his  pax  vobiscum,  Cyril  visited  Thorndale  to  the 
last.  But  Thorndale  saw  the  Cistercian  on  the  strip  of 
beach  no  more. 

Cyril  had  felt  the  dilhculty  which  most  thoughtful  men 


526  TIIOHNDALE  ;    OK,   TILE 

must   feel,  as  to  what  coiiC('[)tion   should  be   formeil   ot 
God:  — 

IIow  personify  the  Infinite?  I  said  to  myself.  Does  not  the  notion 
of  personality  itself  imply  contrast,  limitation,  and  must  not  a  Person 
be  therefore  Finite?  or  how  personify  at  all,  but  by  borrowing  from 
the  creature,  and  framing  an  ideal  out  of  human  (jualitiesV 

At  one  moment  my  conception  of  God  seemed  grand  and  distinct 
and  my  whole  soul  was  filled  and  satisfied  with  it.  Suddenly  I  wa 
startled  and  abashed  when  I  traced  in  it  too  plainly  the  features  of 
humanity.  These  1  hastened  to  obliterate;  and  the  whole  image  waa 
then  fading  into  terrible  obscurity.  I  remember  one  day  our  common 
friend  I.uxniore  saying,  in  his  wild  poetic  manner,  that  the  ordinary 
imagination  of  God  was  but  the  shadow  of  a  man  thrown  upwards, — 
the  image  of  our  best  anil  greatest,  seen  larger  on  the  concave  of  the 
sky. 

We  remark  upon  this,  that  Luxiiiore,  after  all,  was 
only  stating  in  a  poetical  and  somewhat  exaggerated 
form,  a  great  and  fundamenlal  religious  truth.  We  are 
"created  in  the  image  of  God:"  and  it  is  only  because 
there  is  something  in  us  which  resembles  God,  that  we 
are  able  to  form  any  conception  of  Iliin  and  his  charac- 
ter. But  for  thi.s,  we  could  no  more  conceive  of  God's 
attributes  than  a  blind  man,  who  never  saw,  can  con- 
ceive of  color.  We,  of  couise,  are  fallen  creatui-es  ;  and 
our  blurred  and  blotted  qualities  bear  only  the  faintest 
and  farthest  likeness  to  that  Divine  Image  in  which  we 
were  made.  And  furtliei-,  it  is  true  enough  that  when 
we  kneel  down  to  pray,  we  should  oidy  distract  and 
di-shearten  ourselves  by  trying  to  form  a  conception  cif 
a  Being  in  whose  nature  there  are  such  elements  as 
eternity,  omnipresence,  omnipotence,  invisibility;  and  Ijy 
trying  to  feel  that  we  are  addressing  Him.  lint  was 
Luxmore  entirely  wrong  when  he  said  that  the  Hearer 
of  prayer,  to  our  weak  minds,  draws  personality  from  a 
sublimed  humanity?     It  is  not  a  ftible,  that  we  know  the 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  327 

picture  of  a  man's  character  and  life  set  out  in  a  certain 
simple  story.  Glad  Tidings  to  all  to  whom  it  comes:  —  a 
man  towards  whom  we  can  feel  kindly  sympathy  and 
warm  atFection  :  a  human  being  like  ourselves :  and  we 
are  told  that  He  is  "the  image  of  the  invisible  God:" 
that  when  we  picture  Him  to  our  hearts,  we  picture  God 
—  softened,  but  not  degraded.  We  can  see  "the  glory 
of  God  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ :  "  and  in  praying  to 
God,  we  can  feel  as  though  the  kind  face  were  bent  over 
us  as  we  pray,  —  as  though  we  were  telling  of  our  wants 
and  sorrows  to  that  kind  and  gentle  heart.  Do  we  de- 
sire to  think  clearly  to  whom  we  speak  when  we  pray? 
We  are  chilled  and  overwhelmed  when  we  think  of  in- 
finite space  and  infinite  time:  it  is  not  to  an  aggregate  of 
such  qualities  as  these  that  we  can  address  heartfelt 
pleading.  Let  us  think  we  are  speaking  to  a  sympa- 
thizing Man  ;  and  child-like,  we  can  bend  down  our  head 
upon  the  knee  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  and  breathe  into  His 
ear  the  story  of  our  wants  and  woes.  We  have  all  that 
the  grossest  idolatry  ever  gave  of  clear  conception  ;  and 
yet  our  worship  is  not  degraded,  but  sublimed. 

Not  so  pleasing  is  the  Fourlh  Book  of  Thorndale's 
manuscript,  entitled  "  Seckendorf,  or  the  Si)irit  of  De- 
nial." Long  ago,  in  Switzerland,  Thorndale  found  Seck- 
endorf  in  the  studio  of  Clarence,  the  Utopian  artist.  Seck- 
endorf  was  a  tall  man,  with  gray  hair  and  keen  gray  eyes, 
and  advanced  in  years.  He  was  by  birth  a  German 
baron  ;  but  he  was  known  in  England  as  Doctor  Secken- 
dorf,  an  eminent  physician  and  physiologist.  In  philos- 
ophy, he  was  just  the  o{)posite  of  Clarence  :  sceptical, 
farcastic,  hoping  nothing.  His  philosophy  was  '*  firm  as  a 
rock,  and  as  hard  and  barren,"  He  ludd  that  what  is  ex- 
cellent never  can  be  common,  l)ecanse  "  higlier  excellence 


328  THORNDALE  ;   OR,  THE 

is  greater  complication,  and  its  manifestation  must  bo 
more  restricted,  because  a  lar;^er  number  of  antecedent 
conditions  are  necessary  for  liiat  nianil'e.-tation."  The 
Utopian's  "good  time  coming,"  of  universal  goodness 
and  happiness,  could  therefore  never  be.  And  Thorn- 
dale  thought  out  a  sad  induction  of  facts  in  corroboration 
of  the  thing:  — 

There  is  more  sea  than  land;  tliree  fourths  of  the  globe  are  covered 
with  salt  Avater. 

There  is  more  barren  land  than  fertile;  much  is  siieer  desert,  or  hope- 
less swamp;  great  part  wild  arid  steppes,  or  land  that  can  only  be  held 
in  cultivation  by  incessant  tuil. 

Where  nature  is  most  prulilic,  there  is  more  weed  and  jungle  than 
fruit  and  flower. 

Of  the  animal  creation,  the  lowest  orders  are  by  far  the  most  numer- 
ous. The  injusuriii,  and  oilier  creatures  that  seem  to  enjoy  no  other 
sensations  than  what  are  immediately  connected  with  food  and  move- 
ment ( if  even  these),  far  surjjass  all  others  in  this  respect.  The  tribes 
of  insects  are  innumerable;  the  mannnalia  comparatively  few. 

Of  the  human  inhabitants  of  the  earth,  the  ethnologist  tells  us  that 
the  Mongolian  race  is  the  most  numerous,  which  is  not  certainly  the 
race  in  which  the  noblest  forms  of  civilization  have  appeared.  As  in 
the  tree  there  is  more  leaf  than  fruit,  so  in  the  most  advanced  nation  of 
Europe  there  are  more  poor  than  rich,  more  ignorant  than  wise,  more 
automatic  laborers,  the  mere  creatures  of  habit,  than  reasoning  and 
reflective  men. 

We  do  not  know  whether  the  cidebi'ated  anonymous 
work,  entitled  The  Plurality  of  Worlds,  was  published  be- 
fore Thorndale's  death.  If  he  had  read  it,  he  might  have 
gathered  from  its  eloquent  and  startling  pages  one  in- 
stance more  for  his  induction.  lie  might  have  stated 
that  there  seems  strong  reason  to  believe  that  of  all  the 
orbs  which  have  (if  we  may  say  so)  blossomed  in  im- 
mensity, only  one  has  arrived  at  fruit:  that  this  earth 
is  the  only  inhabited  world  in  all  the  universe.  The 
Creator  works  with  a  lavi-h    hand.      But  as   his  works 


CONFLICT   OF  OPINIONS.  329 

grow  nobler,  they  grow  fewer.  Scarcity,  we  all  know, 
makes  a  tiling  more  valuable :  the  converse  holds  as 
truly,  that  value  makes  a  thing  scarce. 

The  second  chapter  in  this  Fourth  Book  treats  ingeni- 
ously and  strikingly  of  the  power  of  money ;  and  also 
furnishes  proof  that  Thorndale,  like  many  men  of  his 
make,  was  not  minutdy  accurate.  The  chapter  is  called 
"  The  Silver  Shilling ; "  and  over  and  over  again  we  have 
tlie  silver  shilling  repeated,  as  the  type  of  money.  Seck- 
endorf  tells  us  where  he  got  the  name :  it  was  from  "  a 
poem  by  one  Phillips,  '  On  the  Silver  Shilling.'  "  We 
know,  of  course,  what  Se^kendorf  is  referring  to  ;  but 
there  is  no  such  poem  as  that  he  quotes.  Most  men 
who  are  tolerably  well  read  in  the  poetry  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  have  at  lea>t  heard  of  John  Phillips's 
poem,  The  Splendid  Shilling,  an  anmsing  parody  of  the 
style  of  Milton  :  it  sets  out  lim  - :  — 

Happy  the  iiuiii,  who,  void  of  care  and  strife, 
In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse,  retains 
A  Splendid  Shilling:  he  nor  hears  with  pain, 
New  oysters  cried,  nor  sighs  for  cheerful  ale. 

Our  shortening  space  forbids  our  offering  our  readers 
any  account  of  Seckendorfs  career,  which  Mr.  Smitli 
sketches  with  great  liveliness  and  interest ;  or  our  notic- 
ing the  topics  which  were  discussed  in  council  by  Tiiorn- 
dale,  Clarence,  and  Seckendorf.  Seckendorf  thought 
there  is  a  general  movement  in  England  towards  the 
Roman  Catholic  Cliurch  ;  and  tliat  it  is  not  unlikely 
that  tiie  ragged  urchin  who  is  clialking  up  "  No  Po- 
pery "  on  the  walls  of  London,  may  live  to  see  Higli 
Mass  performed  in  St.  Paul's  Catliedral.  lie  main- 
tained that  fear  is  the  root  of  all  religion  ;  the  unseen 
root,  even  in  the    happiest  Christians:  —  that  "the  pil- 


330  THORNDALE;   OH   THE 

lars  of  heaven  are  sunk  in  hell."  We  differ  from  hira. 
We  think  that  love  and  hope,  rather  than  fear,  are  the 
guiding  influences  in  the  Christian  life.  We  believe  that 
though  a  great  fear  may  be  tiie  thing  (hat  wakens  a  man 
up  from  total  unconcern  about  religion,  yet  that  the  race 
once  entered  on,  he  treads  "  tlie  way  to  Zion  with  Ida 
face  (Itifherioard;"  —  looking  towards  the  home  he  seeks; 
and  drawn  by  the  liope  before,  rather  than  driven  by  the 
fear  behind  him. 

Tliorndale's  Fifth  Book  is  called  "  Clarence,  or  the 
TItoi)ian."  As  the  invalid  vvas  wearing  down  from  day 
to  day,  one  morning  he  was  sitting  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Villa  Reale.  There  a  group  drew  his  attention,  —  a 
father,  and,  as  it  seemed,  his  little  daughter.  The  father 
was  evidently  an  Englishman  :  the  little  girl,  with  fair 
complexion  and  light  hair,  had  the  dark  eye  of  the  Ital- 
ian. Thorndale  recognized  liis  old  friend  Clarence  ;  but; 
with  characteristic  reserve,  he  shrunk  from  making  him- 
self known.  But  he  looked  with  kind  feeling  upon  the 
little  child  ;  and  mused,  as  Dr.  Arnold  had  done  before 
him,  on  a  child's  power  to  reawaken  a  parent's  flagging 
interest  in  life.  The  beaten  track  is  no  longer  monoto- 
nous :  the  circle  of  the  year  looks  new.  Thorndale  thus 
mused :  — 

What  beautiful  things  there  are  in  life!  joys  that  have  come  dovvn 
to  us  pure  and  unstained  from  the  times  of  the  patriarchs.  It  is  to  me 
an  eternal  miracle  to  see  the  same  roses  3'ear  after  year  bloom  as  fresh- 
ly as  they  did  in  Paradise.  Plant  this  wedded  happiness,  plant  these 
roses,  in  every  rood  of  ground,  ye  wlio  would  improve  the  aspect  of 
this  world !  but  do  not  think  you  can  change  a  single  leaf  of  the  plant 
itself 

Thorndale's  idea  had  been  anticipated.  James  Hed- 
derwick  thus  excuses  a  new  poem  on  the  old  theme  of 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  S3l 

The  theme  is  old,  —  even  as  the  flowers  are  old, 

That  sweetly  showed 
Their  silver  bosses  and  bright-budding  gold 

Through  Eden's  scd ;  — 
And  still  peep  forth  through  grass  and  garden  mould, 

As  fresh  from  God  ! 

Happily  Tiiorndale  and  Clarence  met  at  last.  Tho 
Tittle  girl,  compassionating  the  wan  look  of  the  consump- 
tive, offered  him  anotiier  day  some  flowers.  Clarence 
followed  her  ;  and  suddenly  recognizing  his  old  com- 
panion, "  burst  into  tears  like  a  woman."  He  and  his 
little  Julia  were  afterwards  constant  visitors  at  the  Villa 
Scarpa  ;  and  all  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  whicli  iiad  been 
paling  to  the  dying  man's  languid  eye,  suddenly  revived. 
Morning  after  morning  Clarence  spent,  painting  the  view 
from  Thorndale's  terrace.  Julia  was  not  his  daughter  : 
she  was  his  adopted  child.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
an  exiled  Italian  patriot  who  had  come  to  England,  mar- 
ried an  English  woman,  settled  down  quietly  in  a  little 
cottage  on  the  borders  of  t!ie  New  Forest,  and  supported 
bimself  as  a  sculptor.  We  trust  that  all  our  readers  will 
make  a  point  of  perusing  the  chapter  called  "  Julia  Mon- 
tini,"  in  which  the  story  of  the  exile,  his  wife  and  child, 
is  related  with  exquisite  grace  and  pathos.  Very  beauti- 
fully did  the  simple  and  untaught  English  girl  tell  Clar- 
ence how,  as  there  gradually  grew  upon  her  the  sense  of 
the  genius  and  refinement  of  the  man  she  had  married^ 
she  feared  that  he  woidd  cease  to  love  her,  so  much 
above  her  as  he  was.  Slie  read  a?id  studied,  hoping  to 
make  herself  more  worthy  of  him  :  but  iier  fear  proved 
idle  ;  he  never  loved  her  less.  It  is  indeed  something 
of  a  disappointment  for  a  husband  to  feel  there  are 
realms  of  thought  to  which  he  has  access,  but  into  wliich 
a  gentle   and   loving  wife  cannot  enter   with   him  :    but 


332  TIIORXDALE  ;    OR,   THE 

solitude  is;  the  penalty  which  attaches  of  necessity  to 
elevated  thouglit.  The  man  who  climbs  too  high,  leaves 
common  sympatliy  behind  hiin.  Our  readers  may  re- 
member how  beautifully  the  author  of  In  Metnoriam 
has  anticipated  the  poor  young  wife's  thoughts  and 
fear^ :  — 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 

He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star: 

He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far: 
He  looks  so  cold:  she  thinks  him  kind. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings, 
'        Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house, 
And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  lixt  and  cannot  move, 
She  darkly  feels  him  dark  and  wise: 
Slie  dwells  on  him  with  fiiithful  eyes, 

"I  cannot  understand:  I  love." 

Suddenly  the  sculptor  and  his  wife  died  of  fever  ;  and 
Clarence  found  the  little  child  all  alone  in  the  deserted 
cottage.  The  quiet  home,  that  had  looked  so  happy,  was 
obliterated  at  a  stroke.  Is  it  a  morbid  thing,  if  we  find 
it  for  ourselves  impossible  to  look  at  any  happy  home, 
without  picturing  to  our  mind  a  day  sure  to  come  ?  We 
look  at  the  cottage  in  the  sunshine,  amid  its  clustering 
roses,  and  with  children's  voices  by.  Ah,  some  day 
there  will  be  an  unwonted  bustle,  —  straw  flying  about 
the  neat  walks  —  empty,  echoing  rooms  —  the  children 
gone  —  and  the  peaceful  home  broken  up  forever.  It 
is  well  for  those  who  can  feel  themselves  secure  even  if 
they  be  not  safe. 

And  now  Clarence  and  Julia  soothe  the  d}ing  man's 
soli'ude.      Thorndale  lies  on  his  •^oCa   under  the  acacia- 


CONFLICT   OF   OPINIONS.  333 

tree  ;  Clarence  stands  near,  painting  ;  Julia  is  busy  gar- 
dening. And  as  Tliorndale's  hand  turns  too  feeble  to 
hold  the  pen,  Claj-encf  takes  up  his  abandoned  manu- 
script volume,  and  fills  the  remaining  leaves  with  his 
own  confession  of  faitli.  To  notice  that  at  all  adequately 
would  demand  an  article  of  itself;  and  we  shall  not  at- 
tempt to  do  so.  But  we  see  our  last  of  Thorndale  as  we 
liHve  just  described  him.  We  leave  him,. now  with  very 
little  to  come  of  lite,  under  the  acacia-tree.  There  is 
now  only  the  stillness  of  expectation  upon  that  terrace 
that  looks  down  upon  the  bay. 

We  should  have  been  happier,  we  confess,  had  we  left 
him  with  something  better  to  support  iiim  at  the  last 
than  philosophy,  whether  cynical  or  Ut()])ian.  Surely  he 
had  within  himself,  too  sacred  for  common  talk,  a  hope 
and  a  belief  not  to  be  paraded  for  Seckendorf 's  sarcasm  ! 
Surely,  when,  in  the  last  hours,  the  pictures  of  childhood 
came  back,  the  perplexed  and  tempest-driven  man  was 
again  the  child  that  prayed  by  the  little  white  bedside. 
We  do  not  care  if  our  readers  sliould  complain  that  the 
sermon  peeps  through  the  article  —  that  the  disguise  of 
tlie  reviewer  does  not  quite  conceal  the  gown  and  band. 
Let  it  '>e  so  :  but  in  treating  of  such  grave;  matters  as 
those  wfiich  this  book  suggests,  we  could  not  Iiave  for. 
given  ourselves  had  we  failed  to  notice  tlie  book's  essen- 
tial defect.  Holding  the  belief  wiiich  we  hold,  we  could 
not  have  written  of  the  mystery  of  life,  without  refers 
on(;e  to  that  which  alone  can  read  it. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
CONCERNING   A  GREAT   SCOTCH   PREACHER.I 


R.  CAIRD'S  name  is  already  known  to  tlio 
pjiL^lisli  public  as  that  of  the  author  of  a 
sermon  on  Religion  in  Common  Life,  which 
was  published  two  or  three  years  ago  by 
her  Majesty's  command.  Every  Sunday  during  lier 
autumn  sojourn  at  l>almoral,  the  Queen  and  court  wor- 
shi|)  at  the  little  parish  ciiurch  of  Crathie  ;  and  at  vari- 
ous times  several  of  the  most  popular  preacliers  of  the 
Churdi  of  Scotland  have  there  preached  in  the  presence 
of  royalty.  Dr.  Norman  INIcLeod  of  Glasgow,  Dr.  Gum- 
ming, Mr.  Stuart,  of  St.  Andrew's,  Edinburgh,  and  other 
eminent  Scotch  clergymen,  have  oificiated  at  Crathie 
Church,  and  in  more  than  one  instance  with  so  favor- 
able an  impression,  that  the  manuscripts  of  the  dis- 
courses have  been  required  for  the  Queen's  private 
perusal.  But  Mr.  Caird  was  the  first  Scotch  minister 
who  received  a  royal  command  to  give  his  sermon  to  the 
public;  and  indeed,  with  the  exception  of  tlie  Bishop  of 
Oxford,  the  first  preacher  who  ha<l  been  so  distinguished 
during  her  Maje-ty's  reign.  Many  circumstances,  apart 
from  the  merit  of  the  discourse,  contributed  to  secure  for 
it  a  very  large  circulation  in  England  as  well  as  in  Scot- 

1  Servians.  By  the  Rev.  John  Caird,  M.  A.,  Minister  of  the  Park 
Church,  GlasjTow,  Author  of  Re'iyion  in  Common  Life.  Edinburgh 
and  London:  Blackwoods.     1858. 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   335 

land  ;  and  we  Imve  been  informed  that  no  single  sermon 
published  in  modern  times  has  been  so  extensively  read. 
Somewhere  about  a  hundred  thousand  copies  of  it  weie 
exhausted  in  Britain  :  a  still  greater  number  were  re- 
quired for  the  United  States,  where  our  friends  were 
eager  to  know  what  sort  of  religious  instruction  was  ap- 
proved by  a  queen  ;  and  the  sermon  being  translated 
into  the  German  tongue,  was  republisiied  in  Germany 
with  a  recommendatory  preface  by  the  Chevalier  Bun- 
sen.  At  that  period  it  became  known  for  the  first  time 
to  the  English  public  that  there  had  arisen  in  Scotland  a 
new  luminary  ;  a  groat  pul|)it  orator  who  was  held  by 
many  to  be  equal  to  any  who  had  preceded  him,  Chal- 
mers and  Guthrie  not  being  excepted.  And  the  pub- 
lished sermon  seemed  almost  to  justify  the  enthusiasm  of 
Mr.  Caird's  warmest  admirers.  We  believe  that  among 
intelligent  readers  there  was  but  one  opinion  of  it,  as  an 
ingenious,  eloquent,  sensible,  and  interesting  exposition 
of  an  impoi'tant  j^ractical  subject.  Still,  we  have  been 
told  that  some  readers  thought  INIr.  Caird's  theology  very 
defective  ;  and  it  is  not  long  since  we  read  a  letter  in  a 
newspaper  which  is  the  organ  of  a  small  religious  sect, 
in  which  Mr.  Caird  was  sadly  torn  to  pieces  as  lacking 
all  spiritual  insight  and  knowledge  of  the  gospel  doc- 
trines. And  the  ingenious  writer  of  that  letter  statcil 
that  nothing  conid  bo  more  mistaken  than  the  jiopular 
belief  that  the  Queen,  in  commanding  the  publication  of 
Mi.  Caird's  sermon,  intended  to  express  her  approval  of 
it.  On  the  contrary,  her  Majesty's  purpose  was  (so  the 
writer  of  the  letter  assures  us)  to  make  an  appeal  to  the 
sympathies  of  the  religious  public,  and  to  say,  ■ —  "  Pity 
me,  my  subjects ;  here  is  a  specimen  of  the  kind  of 
thing  that  I  have  to  listen  to  in  Scotland  in  autumn  !  " 


336      COXCEKNING   A   GUKAT   SCOTCEI   PREACHER. 

Mr.  Caird  made  liis  roputation  as  a  i)reaoher  while 
minister  of  a  church  in  Edinburgh,  but  about  ten  years 
since  he  retired  from  the  bustle  of  a  city  clergyman's  life 
to  the  country  parish  of  Errol,  in  Perthshire.  From  his 
seclusion  there  he  occasionally  emerged  to  preach  in  the 
large  towns  of  Scotland,  and  far  from  being  forgotten  or 
lost  siglit  of  in  his  country  retirement,  his  popularity  ap- 
peared ever  on  the  increase.  Whenever  he  preached  in 
P^dinburgh  or  Glasgow,  the  crowds  tbat  followed  him  had 
hardly  been  equalled  since  the  great  days  of  Dr.  Chal- 
mers ;  and  tiie  fame  to  which  Religion  iji  Common  Life 
attained  did  not  surpass  the  expectations  of  his  Scotcii 
admirers.  A  few  months  since  ]\Ir.  Caird,  now  a  clergy- 
man of  thirteen  years'  experience,  was  transferred  from 
his  country  parish  to  the  beautiful  church  recently  erected 
in  the  West-end  Park  at  Glasgow,  to  which  we  are  sorry 
to  see  its  builders  were  too  Protestant  to  give  a  saint's 
name.  There,  with  undiminislied  fire  and  unslackening 
popularit}-,  ]\[r.  Caird  preaches  twice  every  Sunday. 
The  stranger  in  Glasgow,  if  he  wanders  on  Sunday  after- 
noon in  the  direction  of  the  Park,  will  see  a  well-dressed 
eager  crowd  hurrying  towards  the  Park  Churcli ;  and  we 
understand  that  so  overcrowded  was  the  building  at  ISIr. 
Caird's  first  coming,  tiiat  it  has  been  found  necessary  to 
furnish  the  congregation  with  tickets,  no  one  being  ad- 
mitted without  producing  one.  Mr.  Caird,  we  believe 
is  of  opinion  that  in  order  to  produce  its  full  impression, 
a  sermon  ongiit  not  to  be  read,  but  to  be  delivered  as  if 
given  extempore  ;  but  as  the  labor  of  committing  a  dis- 
course to  memory  is  great,  he  reads  his  forenoon  (li<course, 
and  deli\ers  without  any  manuscript  tiiat  winch  lie  preached 
in  the  afternoon.  The  afternoon  appearance  is  thus  the 
great  one,  and  it  is  to  that  servii^e  that  strangers  who  wish 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.  387 

to  hear  the  eminent  preacher  generally  go.  And  although 
it  is  in  the  nature  of  tilings  impossible  that  a  great  orator 
should  be  always  at  his  best,  we  believe  that  hardly  any 
one  who  goes  to  hear  Mr.  Caird  of  an  afternoon,  how- 
ever high  his  expectations  may  have  been,  returns  dis- 
appointed. 

Let  us  suppose  that  by  the  kindness  of  some  Glasgow 
acquaintance  we  have  succeeded  in  procuring  tickets  of 
admission  to  the  Park  Church.  In  the  midst  of  a  throng 
which  has  converged  from  many  points  to  the  steep  ascent 
which  leads  up  to  it,  we  approach  the  stately  Gothic 
building,  with  its  massive  tower,  which,  standing  on  an 
elevated  ridge  of  ground,  looks  on  either  hand  over  the 
distant  din  of  thronging  streets  bt-neath  to  the  quiet  coun- 
try hills  far  away.  We  find  our  way  into  the  church, 
and  we  have  lime  to  look  around  us,  for  there  is  still  half 
an  hour  before  service  begins.  Is  this  really  a  Presby- 
terian church?  What  would  John  Knox  say  to  it?  For 
all  the  light  within  is  the  "dim  religious  light"  of  the 
cathedral,  mellowed  in  its  passage  through  tlie  windows 
of  stained  glass:  there  is  the  lofty  vaulted  roof  of  richly 
carved  oak,  and  the  double  lino  of  shafts  parting  the 
side  aisles:  far  up,  the  amber-tinted  clerestory  windows 
throw  shafts  of  sunset  color  upon  the  oaken  beams;  and 
in  the  distance  —  for  the  church  is  a  very  long  one  — 
thei-e  is  nothing  le>s  than  a  spacious  chancel,  parted  from 
the  church  by  a  lofty  pointed  arch,  partly  Hlled  u|)  by  a 
traceried  screen  of  stone.  And  at  llie  extremity  of  the 
chancel,  but  (something  lacking  still)  at  the  west  end  of 
the  church,  there  is  an  altar-window,  whose  fair  proportions 
and  rich  tracery  might  have  been  designed  by  Pugin. 
No  galleries  cut  these  graceful  shafts,  and  the  seats  are 
not  pews,  but  open  benches  of  oak.  There  is  no  organ, 
22 


308      COXCFJIXIXG   A  GREAT   SCOTCH   PKEACIIER. 

and  no  altai- ;  but  dircftly  in  front  of  the  chancel  a  plain 
pulpit  of  oak. 

It  is  just  two  o'clock.  Every  seat  is  crowded,  and  the 
passages  have  gradually  filled  with  people  who  are  con- 
tent to  stand.  And  as  the  last  tones  of  the  bell  have 
died  away  Mr.  Caird  ascends  the  pul[)it,  wearing,  as 
Scotch  ministers  do,  the  black  silk  preaching-gown  and 
cassock.  His  appearance  is  natural  and  unaffected.  Of 
the  middle  size,  with  dark  complexion  and  long  l)lack  hair, 
good  but  not  remarkable  ibn-licad,  a  somewhat  careworn 
and  anxious  expression,  and  looking  like  a  retiring  and 
hard-wrought  student  of"  eight-and-thirty  —  there  we  have 
Mr.  Caird.  He  begins  the  service  by  reading  the  psalm 
which  is  to  be  sung,  and  we  are  struck  at  once  by  the 
solemnity  and  depth  of  his  voice,  and  we  feel  already 
something  of  tlie  indescribable  charm  there  is  about  the 
whole  man.  Tiie  psalm  is  sung  by  a  clioir  so  efiicient 
that  the  lack  of  tlie  organ  is  hardly  felt.  Then  the  min- 
ister rises,  and.  the  whole  congregation  standing,  offers  a 
prayer.  Tiie  Churcli  of  Scotland  has  no  liturgy,  and 
every  clergyman  has  to  prepare  his  own  prayers.  These 
are  commonly  understood  to  be  given  extemporaneously, 
and  generally  they  are  extemporaneous ;  but  as  we  listen 
to  those  sentences,  uttered  with  so  much  feeling,  solem- 
nity, quietude,  and  fluency,  we  soon  know  that  the  prayers, 
filled  with  happy  turns  of  expression,  containing  many 
phrases  and  sentences  borrowed  from  the  Liturgy,  and 
some  (or  we  are  much  mistaken)  translated  from  the 
Missal,  and  all  conceived  and  expressed  in  the  simple, 
beautiful  liturgical  s|)irit,  have  been,  if  not  written,  at 
least  most  carefully  thought  over  at  home.  At  one  time 
Mr.  Caird's  prayers  were  ambitious  and  oratorical;  but 
now  their  perfect  simplicity   tells  of  more  mature  judg- 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   339 

ment  and  taste.  We  cannot  say  whether  the  congrega- 
tion has  so  far  mastered  the  essential  difficulty  of  unlitur- 
gical  common  prayer  as  to  be  properly  joining  in  those 
petitions ;  but  the  perfect  stillness,  the  silence  and  stirless- 
ness  that  prevail  in  church,  testify  that  the  congregation 
is  at  all  events  intently  listening.  The  prayer  is  over  — 
only  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  a  lesson  from  Scrip- 
ture is  read,  chosen  at  the  discretion  of  the  clergyman ; 
then  a  psalm  is  sung ;  then  comes  the  sermon.  You 
cannot  doubt,  as  you  see  the  people  arranging  themselves 
for  fixed  attention,  what  portion  of  the  worship  of  God 
is  thought  in  Scotland  the  most  important.  The  service 
jn  that  country  is  essentially  one  of  instruction  rather 
than  one  of  devotion.  The  text  is  read ;  it  is  generally 
such  as  we  feel  at  once  to  be  a  suggestive  one  ;  it  is  some- 
times striking,  but  never  odd  or  strange.  Then  Mr. 
Caird  begins  his  sermon.  He  has  no  manuscript  before 
him,  not  a  shred  of  what  the  humbler  Scotch  call  paper, 
and  abhor  as  they  abhor  a  vestige  of  Rome  ;  but  who 
could  for  a  moment  be  misled  into  imagining  those 
felicitous  sentences  extemporaneous,  or  that  masterly 
symmetrical  discussion  of  the  subject,  so  ingenious,  so 
thoughtful,  so  rich  in  fine  illustration,  rising  several 
times  in  the  course  of  the  sermon  into  a  fervid  rush 
of  eloquence  that  you  hold  your  breath  to  listen  to  — 
the  excogitation  of  the  moment?  In  hearing  Mr.  Caird 
you  have  nothing  to  get  over.  There  is  nothing  that  de- 
tracts from  the  general  effect ;  none  of  those  disagreeable 
peculiarities  and  awkwardnesses  in  ulterance,  in  gesture, 
in  appearance,  in  mode  of  thought,  which  grievously 
detract  from  the  pleasure  with  which  we  listen  to  many 
distinguished  speakers  till  we  get  accustomed  to  them, 
ar.d  Isarn  to  forsret  their  defects   in    their   merits   and 


340      CONCERNING   A   GREAT   SCOTCH   PREACHER. 

bpauties.     He  begins  quietly,  but  in  a  manner  which  ia 
full  of  earne,<tnes.s  and  feeling;    every  word  is  touched 
with  just  the  right  kind  and  degree  of  emphasis;  many 
single  words,  and  many  little  sentences  which  when  you 
recall  them  do  not  seem  very  remarkable,  are  given  in 
tones  which  make    them    absolutely  thrill  through  you  : 
you  feel  that  the  preacher  has  in  him  the  elements  of  a 
tragic  actor  who  would  rival  Keaii.    The  attention  of  the 
congregation  is  riveted;  the  .silence  is  breathless;  and  as 
the  speaker  goes  on  gathering  warmth  till   he  becomes 
impassioned  and  impetuous,  the  tension  of  (he  nerves  of 
the  hearer  becomes  almost  jjainful.     There  is  abundant 
ornament  in  style  —  if  you  were  cooler  you  might  proba- 
bly think  some  of  it  carried  to  the  verge  of  good  taste ; 
there  is  a  great  amount  and  variety  of  the  most  expres- 
sive, apt,  and  seemingly  unstudied  gesticulation  :  it  is  rath- 
er as  though  you  were  listening  to  the  impulsive  Italian 
speaking  from  head  to  foot,  than  to  the  cool  and  unexcit- 
able  Scot.    After  two  or  three  such  climaxes,  with  pauses 
between,  after  the  manner  of  Dr.  Clialiners,  the  preacher 
gathers   himself  up  for   his    peroration,  which,  with  (he 
tact  of    the   orator,   he    has   made   more    striking,  more 
touching,   more   impressive   than   any  preceding  portion 
ot  his  discourse.     He  is  wound  up  often  to  an  excitement 
which  is  painful  to  see.     The  full  deep  voice,  so  beauti- 
fully expressive,  already  taxed  to  its  utmost  extent,  breaks 
into  something  which  is  almost  a  shriek  ;  the  gesticulation 
becomes  wild;  the  preacher,  who  has  hitherto  held  himself 
to  some  degree  in  check,  seems  to  abandon  himself  to  the 
full  tiile  of  his  emotion  :  you  feel  that  not  even   his  elo- 
quent lips  can  do  justice  to  the  rush  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing within.     Two  or  three  minutes  in  this  impassioned 
strain  and  the  sermon  is  done.     A  few  moments  of  start- 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   341 

ling  silence ;  you  look  round  the  church  ;  every  one  is 
bending  forward  with  eyes  intent  u[)on  the  pulpit ;  then 
(herfe  is  a  general  breath  and  stir.  You  think  the  ser- 
mon has  lasted  about  ten  minutes ;  you  consult  your 
watch  —  it  has  lasted  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  If  you 
are  an  enthusiastic  Anglican  you  say  to  yourself,  "  Well, 
that  comes  to  the  mark  of  Melvill  or  Bishop  Wilberforce." 
If  an  enthusiastic  Scotch  churchman,  you  say  to  yourself', 
"  Well,  I  suppose  Chalmers  was  better  ;  but  1  never  heard 
preaching  like  it,  save  from  Guthi-ie  or  Norman  McLeod." 

Then  follow  a  brief  collect,  a  hymn,  and  the  benedic- 
tion ;  and  you  come  away,  having  lieard  the  great  Scotch 
preaciier.  We  may  very  fitly  call  him  so  ;  for  except 
Dr.  Guthrie  and  Dr.  McLeod,  there  is  no  one  whom  the 
popular  judgment  of  Scotland  in  general  places  near  Mr. 
Caird.  And  though  every  district  of  Scothmd  and  every 
town  has  its  popular  preacher  —  and  though  many  con- 
gregations have  each  their  own  favorite  clergyman  whom 
they  prefer  to  all  oth<n-s  —  still  the  very  best  that  the 
warmest  admirers  of  other  Scotch  ministers  can  lind  to 
say  of  them  is,  that  they  are  better  than  Mr.  Caird. 
He  is  the  Scotch  Themistocles.  Even  those  who  would 
place  another  preacher  tirst,  place  Mr.  Caird  second. 

It  is  rarely  indeed  that  we  find  such  a  remarkable 
combination  in  one  individual  of  the  qualities  which  go 
to  make  an  effective  pulpit  orator.  Mr.  Caird's  mind 
has  the  knack  of  producing  the  precise  kind  of  thought 
which  shall  be  at  once  worthy  of  the  attention  of  the 
best  educated  and  most  refined,  and  effective  when  ad- 
dressed to  a  mixed  congregation.  And  that  is  the  prac- 
tical talent  for  the  preacher,  after  all.  No  dei)th,  origi- 
nality, or  power  of  thought  will  make  up  in  a  sermon  for 
the  absence  of  general  interest.     No  thought  or  style  ia 


812   COK(  ERNIXG  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER. 

good  in  tlie  pulpit,  which  is  tiresome.  There  is  an  in- 
sufferable but  lofly  order  of  thought,  which  you  listen  ^.» 
with  an  effort,  feel  to  be  extremely  flne,  and  cease  listen- 
ing to  as  soon  as  possible.  John  Foster,  who  scattered 
congregations,  was  beyond  doubt  an  abler  preacher  than 
Mr.  Caird  ;  but  he  did  scatter  congregations,  and  tln-re- 
fbre  he  was  not  a  good  preacher,  finely  as  his  publislied 
discourses  read.  There  are  other  preachers  who  attract 
crowds  by  preaching  sermons  which  revolt  every  one 
who  possesses  good  sense  or  good  taste  ;  but  in  distinc- 
tion alike  from  the  good  unpopular  preacher  and  the  bad 
popular  preacher,  Mr.  Caird  has  the  talent  to  produce 
at  will  an  order  of  thought  elevated  enough  to  please 
the  most  cultivated,  and  interesting  enough  to  attract 
the  masses.  lie  has  a  good  foundation  of  metaphysical 
acumen  and  power  ;  strong  practical  sen-e  ;  then  great 
powers  in  the  way  of  Iiappy  and  sti'iking  illustration  ;  in- 
deed, he  traces  analogies  between  the  material  and  the 
spiritual  with  a  felicity  which  reminds  us  of  Archbishop 
Whately.  Mr.  Caird  has  also  that  invaluable  gift  of  the 
orator  —  a  capacity  of  intense  feeling  ;  he  can  throw  his 
whole  soul  into  what  he  says,  with  an  emotion  which  is 
contagious.  Further,  he  has  a  remaikably  telling  and 
expressive  voice,  and  a  highly  effective  dramatic  manner. 
Add  to  all  these  qualifications  tliat,  from  natural  bent, 
fostered  and  encouraged  by  unequalled  success  from  his 
first  entering  the  church,  he  has  devoted  himself  stead- 
fastly to  the  single  end  of  l)ecoming  a  great  and  distin- 
guished preacher.  That  end  he  has  completely  attained 
For  at  least  ten  years  he  has  held  in  Scotland  the  posi- 
tion which  he  now  holds  ;  and  the  fortunate  incident  of 
his  preaching  at  Crathie  extended  his  i-eputation  beyond 
the  limits  of  Scotland.      Mr.  Caird  is  certainlv  the  most 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   343 

generally  [jopular  preacher  in  the  Scotch  Ciiurch,  and  he 
deserv«?s  his  populai'iiy.  We  cannot,  of  course,  go  into 
the  question  of  mute  inglorious  Miltons,  and  of  flow- 
ers born  to  blu.-h  unseen.  It  is  possible  enough  that 
among  the  Cumberland  liills,  or  in  curacies  like  Sydney 
Smith's  on  Salisbury  Plain,  or  wandering  sadly  by  the 
shore  of  Shetland  fiords,  there  may  be  men  who  have  in 
(hem  the  makings  of  better  preachers  than  Bishop  Wil- 
berlorce,  Mr.  Melvill,  Dr.  McLeod,  or  ]\Ir.  Caird.  Of 
course  there  may  be  Folletts  that  never  held  a  brief, 
Angelos  that  never  built  St.  Peter's,  and  Vandycks  who 
never  got  beyond  their  sixpence  a  day.  There  may  be, 
of  course,  and  there  may  not  be  ;  and  what  is  known 
must  for  practical  purposes  be  taken  for  wliat  is. 

It  may  readily  be  supposed  that  the  announcement  of 
a  forthcoming  volume  of  sermons  by  so  distinguished  a 
preacher  did  not  fail  to  excite  much  interest  in  the  dis- 
trict where  he  is  best  known  Little  Tom  Eaves,  who 
at  different  times  has  given  Mr.  Thackery  so  much  valu- 
able information,  assured  us,  on  his  return  from  a  recent 
visit  to  Edinburgh,  that  the  eminent  publishers  who  have 
sent  forth  this  volume,  were  content  to  give  for  its  copy- 
right a  sum  which,  for  a  volume  of  sermons,  was  quite 
extraordinary  —  as  much,  in  fact,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott 
received  for  Marmion.  IMi-.  Caird's  book  is  sure  to  have 
many  readers.  Many  educated  peoi)le  in  England  will 
feel  cui'ious  to  know  what  sort  of  preaching  is  at  a  pre- 
mium in  the  Scotch  Church,  where  many  things  are  so 
diflerent  from  what  they  are  among  us.  And  we  think 
we  have  been  able  to  trace  one  or  two  indications  in  the 
volume,  that  Mr.  Caird  had  an  Englisii  audience  in  view. 
On  at  least  two  occasions  we  find  the  word  Sunday  ("  a 
Sunday  meditation,"  "  Sunday->c\\oo\    teachers,")   where 


34-4   CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  TREACHER. 

we  are  mistakpn  if  most  Scotoh  preachers  woukl  not 
have  employed  tlie  woi'd  Sabbafh,  which  is  in  almost 
universal  use  north  of  the  Tweed.  But  in  Scotland,  n3 
doubt,  Mr.  Caird  will  find  the  great  majority  of  his  read- 
ers. Numbers  of  people  who  have  listened  to  the  fiery 
oi-ator  will  be  anxious  to  find  wluthcr  the  discourses 
»vhich  struck  them  so  much  when  aided  by  the  acc(!S- 
sories  of  a  wonderfully  telling  manner,  will  stand  the 
severer  test  of  a  quiet  perusal  at  home.  So  here  is  Mr. 
Caird's  volume. 

Here,  then,  we  have  the  spent  thunderbolts,  motion- 
less and  cold.  Here  we  have  the  locomotive  engine, 
which  tore  along  at  sixty  miles  an  hour,  with  the  fire 
raked  out  and  tlie  steam  gone  down.  Here,  in  short,  we 
have  the  sermons  of  the  great  Scotch  pulpit  orator,  strip- 
ped of  the  fire,  the  energy,  the  eloquent  voice,  the  abun- 
dant gesticulation,  which  did  so  much  to  give  (hem  their 
charm  when  delivered  and  heard.  There  is  but  one 
story  told  as  to  the  >hare  wliicii  manner  has  always  had 
in  producing  the  pra(rtical  effect  which  lias  been  felt  in 
listening  to  all  great  orators,  from  Demosthenes  to  Chal- 
mers. Manner  has  always  been  the  first,  second,  and 
third  thing ;  and  Mr.  Caird  could  not  publish  his  manner. 
We  can  examine  his  sermons  calmly,  and  make  up  our 
mind  about  their  merits  deliberately,  now.  To  do  so  was 
quite  impossible  while  we  were  hurried  away  by  the 
"ushing  eloquence  of  the  living  voice. 

No  doubt,  then,  this  volume  will  disappoint  the  less  in- 
telligent class  of  Mr.  Caird's  admirers,  who  expect  to  be 
as  deeply  impressed  in  reading  these  discourses  as  they 
were  in  hearing  them.  No  words  standing  quietly  on 
the  printed  page  can  possibly  have  the  effect  of  the  same 
word>3  spoken  by  the  human  voice,  with  immense  feeling, 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   345 

and  with  all  tlie  arts  of  oratory.  To  expect  that  they 
(should  have  an  equal  effect  is  to  expect  that  the  sword 
laid  upon  the  table  sliould  cut  as  deeply  as  it  did  when 
grasped  in  a  strong  and  skilful  swordsman's  hand.  Mr. 
Caird's  manner  we  know  is  a  remarkably  effective  one  ; 
and  of  course  the  better  the  speaker's  manner,  the  more 
his  speecli  loses  by  being  dissociated  from  it. 

Still,  after  making  every  deduction,  they  are  noble  ser- 
mons ;  and  we  are  not  sure  but  that,  with  the  cultivated 
reader,  they  will  gain  rather  than  lose  by  being  read,  not 
heard.  Tliere  is  a  thoughtfulness  and  depth  about  them 
which  can  hardly  be  appreciated,  unless  when  they  are 
studied  at  leisure;  and  there  are  many  sentences  so  fe- 
licitously expressed  t'lat  we  should  grudge  being  hurried 
away  from  them  by  a  rapid  sjjcaker,  without  being  allowed 
to  enjoy  them  a  second  time.  And  Mr.  Caird,  we  feel  as 
we  read  his  pages,  has  succeeded  in  attaining  a  great  end  : 
he  has  shown  that  it  is  possible  to  produce  sermons  which 
shall  be  immensely  popular,  and  popular  with  all  classes 
of  people :  while  yet  all  shall  be  so  chaste  and  correct 
that  the  most  fastidious  taste  could  hardly  take  exception 
to  a  single  word  or  phrase.  In  Mr.  Caird's  sermons  there 
is  nothing  extravagant  or  eccentric  either  in  thought  or 
style.  There  is  nothing  unworthy  of  the  clergyman  and 
the  scholar.  Tiiere  are  no  claptraj)  expedients  to  excite 
attention  ;  nothing  merely  designed  to  make  an  audience 
gape  ;  nothing  that  could  possibly  produce  a  titter.  'J'he 
solemnity  of  the  house  of  God  is  never  forgotten.  Mr. 
Caird  has  no  peculiar  views,  no  special  system  of  theol- 
ogy :  he  preaches  the  moderate  and  chastened  Calvinism 
of  tiie  Church  of  Scotland,  —  precisely  the  doctrine  of 
the  Thirty-Nine  Articles.  He  does  not  tell  his  hearers 
that  the  world  is  coming  to  an  end  ;  he  finds  nothing  about 


346     CONCERNING  A   GREAT  SCOTCH  PRKACHER. 

Louis  Napoleon  in  the  Book  of  Revelation  ;  he  does  no\ 
select  queer  texts,  or  out  of  tlie  way  topics  for  discussion. 
It  is  no  small  matter  to  have  proved  in  this  an;e  of  jjulpit 
drowsiness  on  tlie  one  hand,  and  pulpit  extravagance  on 
the  other,  that  sound  and  temperate  doctrine,  logical 
accuracy,  and  classical  language  are  quite  oompatible 
with  great  popularity.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  that  dis- 
courses which  are  thoroughly  manly  and  free  from  senti- 
mentalism  or  cant  prove  attractive  to  a  cla>s  which  is  too 
ready  to  run  after  such  pre:ichei"s  as  Mr.  Charles  Honey- 
man  ;  and  that  sensible  and  judicious  views,  set  forth  in  a 
style  which  is  always  scholarly  and  correct,  and  enforced 
by  a  manner  in  which  there  is  no  acting,  howling,  ven- 
triloquizing, or  gymnastic  posturing,  can  hold  vast  crowds 
in  a  rapt  attention,  which  would  please  even  that  slashing 
critic  of  the  pulpit,  Habitans  in  Sicco.  Wide  as  the  poles 
apart  is  such  popularity  as  that  of  Mr.  Caird  from  sucii 
popularity  as  that  of  Mr.  Spurgeon  and  his  class.  It  is 
very  often  with  contempt  and  indignation  that  people 
of  sense  and  taste  listen  to  "  popular  preachers."  No 
doubt  such  preachers  may  be  well  fitted  to  please  and 
even  to  profit  the  great  multitiHle  who  have  little  sense 
and  no  taste  at  all  ;  but  it  is  a  fre-h  and  agreeable  sensa- 
tion to  the  reviewer  when  he  discovers  a  man  whose  emi- 
nence as  a  preacher  is  the  sequel  to  a  brilliant  career  at 
the  University ;  wdiose  sermons  indicate  a  mind  stored 
with  the  I'ruits  of  extensive  reading  and  stud}'  ;  who 
fchrinks  instinctively  from  whatever  is  coarse  or  grotesque  ; 
w  iio  abhors  all  claptrap  ;  who  is  perfectly  simple  and  sin- 
cere without  a  trace  of  self-consciousness;  in  whose  com- 
position tiiere  is  nothing  spasmodic,  nothing  aiming  to  be 
subtle  and  succeeding  in  being  unintelligible ;  and  whc 
seems,  so  far  as  it  is  possible  to  judge,  to  be  actuated  by 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   347 

an  earnest  desire  to  impress  religious  truth  upon  the 
minds  of  his  hearers.  And,  indeed,  when  we  think  what 
is  the  great  end  of  the  preacher's  endeavors,  we  feel  that 
all  mere  literary  qualities  and  graces  are  of  no  account 
whatever  when  compared  with  the  presence  of  that  effi- 
cacious element  in  the  sermon  which  makes  it  such  as 
that  it  shall  be  the  means  of  reaving  souls.  For  ourselves, 
we  should  prefer  a  thousand  times  the  magic  spell  which 
Miss  Marsh  (all  honor  to  the  name)  exercised  at  Syden- 
ham over  English  Hearts,  to  the  church-crowding  elo- 
quence of  Chalmers.  And  in  that  solemn  sense,  perhaps 
the  greatest  of  all  English  preachers  is  the  homely,  pithy, 
earnest  Mr.  Ryle. 

We  confess  that  we  do  not  think  sermons,  generally 
speaking,  by  any  means  attractive  reading  ;  and  we  have 
not  read  a  sufficient  number  of  them  to  be  able  to  insti- 
tute a  comparison  between  the  printed  sermons  of  Mr. 
Can-d  and  those  of  other  distinguished  prcaciiers.  Still, 
we  may  say  that  we  do  not  find  in  Mr.  Caird  the  origi- 
nality of  Mr.  Melvill,  or  the  talent  of  that  eminiMit  divine 
for  eliciting  ftH)m  his  text  a  great  amount  of  striking  and 
unexpected  instruction.  There  is  nothing  of  the  daring 
ingenuity  and  the  novel  interpretations  of  Archbishop 
Whately.  Mr.  Caird  will  never  found  a  school  of  disci- 
ples, like  Dr.  Arnold ;  nor  startle  steady -going  old  cler- 
g.ymcn,  like  Mr.  Robertson  of  Brighton.  He  is  so  clear 
and  comprehensible  that  he  will  not,  like  Mr.  Maurice, 
make  many  readers  feel  or  fancy  the  presence  of  some- 
thing very  fine,  if  they  could  only  be  sure  what  the 
preacher  would  be  at.  He  hardly  sets  a  scents  before  ua 
in  such  life-like  real  ty  as  does  Dr.  Guthrie.  And  al- 
though people  may  go  to  hear  him  for  the  iiiteilcctuaj 
treat,  tiiey  will  never  go  to  be  amused,  as  by  Mr.  Spur- 


HiH     CONCERNING  A   GUEAT   SCOTCH   I'REACHEK. 

geoii.  He  will  never  point  a  sentence  at  the  expense  of 
due  solemnity,  like  a  great  Scotoli  preaciier  who  con- 
trasted men's  profession  and  their  practice  by  saying, 
"  Profession  says,  '  On  this  liang  the  law  and  the  proph- 
ets ; '  Practice  says,  '  Hang  tlie  law  and  the  prophets  ! '  " 
He  will  not,  like  Mr.  Cecil,  arrest  attention  by  beginning 
his  sermon,  "  A  man  was  hanged  this  morning  at  Ty- 
burn ;"  nor  like  Rowland  Hill,  by  exclaiming  "Matches! 
matches  !  matches  !  "  —  nor  like  somebody  or  other  by 
saying  as  he  wiped  his  face,  "It's  damned  hot  !  "  —  nor 
like  Whitelield,  by  vociferating  "  Fire  !  fire  —  in  liell !  " 
He  will  not  imitate  Sterne,  who  read  out  as  his  text,  "  It 
is  better  to  go  to  the  house  of  mourning  than  to  go  to  the 
house  of  feasting  ; "  and  then  exclaimed,  as  the  first  words 
of  his  discourse,  "That  I  deny  !  "  —  making  it  appear  in 
a  little  while  that  such  was  not  the  j)reacher's  own  senti- 
men'i,  but  what  might  be  supposed  to  be  the  reflection  of 
an  irreligious  man.  He  will  never  introduce  into  his 
discourses  long  dialogues  and  arguments  between  God 
and  Satan,  in  which  the  latter  is  made  to  exhibit  a 
deficiency  in  logical  power  which  is,  to  say  (he  least, 
remaikal>le  in  one  who  is  believed  not  to  lack  intellect. 
He  will  not  api)ear  in  the  pulpit  with  his  shirt-sleeves 
turned  back  over  his  cassock,  in  ball-room  fashion  ;  and 
after  giving  out  his  text,  astonish  the  congregation  by 
bellowing,  "  Now,  you  young  men  there,  listen  to  my  ser- 
mon, and  don't  stare  at  my  wrists  !  "  All  such  arts  for 
attracting  or  compelling  interest  and  attention  Mr.  Caird 
eschews. 

And  when  we  read  his  sermons,  though  we  feel  their 
interest,  we  find  it  hard  to  say  in  what  it  lies.  They  are 
admirable  sermons :  but  we  should  scarcely,  a  priori, 
have  ventured  to  predict  their  vast  popular  effect.     The 


CONCERNI>iii  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.  349 

finely-liuketl  thought,  the  completeness  and  symmetry  of 
the  discussion,  the  beautifully  appropriate  illustrations, 
none  .-tuck  in  for  ornament,  but  all  bond  fide  illustrating 
thi,'  subject ;  the  general  sobriety  and  good  sense :  —  these 
are  literary  characteristics  vviiich  we  should  say  would 
prove  hardly  discernible,  and  certainly  not  appreciable, 
3ave  by  people  of  considerable  cultivation.  Must  we, 
then,  fall  back  upon  Manner,  and  suppose  that  the  charm 
which  gives  these  sermons  their  popular  effect  lies  in  a 
great  measure  in  the  touching  and  thrilling  tones,  the 
tears  in  the  voice,  the  enchaining  earnestness,  with  which 
they  are  poured  forth  by  an  orator  who,  like  Whitefield, 
could  almost  melt  an  audience  to  tears  by  saying  Mesopo- 
tamia ?  Or  may  we  not  rather  ask  whether  Mr.  Caird, 
in  his  elaborate  and  fastidious  preparation  of  these  dis- 
courses for  tiie  press,  has  not  cut  out,  or  smoothed  down, 
much  wliich  was  most  striking  when  the  sermons  were 
preached,  but  which  might  have  appeared  of  doubtful 
taste  when  they  were  carefully  and  critically  read  over  ? 
J'erhaps  these  sermons,  while  gaining  in  finish  and  per- 
fection of  literary  construction,  have  lost  some  of  the 
salient  points,  the  roughness  and  raciness,  which  added 
to  their  piquancy  when  delivered.  We  have  heard  Mr. 
Caiid  preach  two  of  those  now  published  ;  and  we  find 
he  has  drawn  his  pen  through  several  of  those  phrases 
which  iiad  stuck  longest  and  most  vividly  in  our  memory. 
We  think  he  has  erred  here.  lie  has  been  over-cautious, 
over-fastidious.  It  is  on  the  very  borderland  of  good 
taste  that  the  deepest  popular  impression  is  made  :  and 
there  was  no  fear  of  Mr.  Caird's  crossing  tiie  border. 
And  we  believe  that  upon  ordinary  Siuidays,  by  dis- 
courses of  much  less  elaborate  pre|)aration,  he  produces 
even  a  greater  effect  upon  his  congregation  than  could  be 


350   COXCERXIXG  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER. 

proclueed  by  any  sermon  in  this  volume,  were  it  preached 
exactly  as  it  is  printed. 

The  published  discourses  are  certainly  very  ambitious 
in  thought  and  style.  There  is  a  want  of  repose  in  them  ; 
and  when  two  or  three  are  I'ead  successively,  the  effect 
upon  the  mind  is  a  little  wearisome.  But  no  doubt  they 
^\  ere  written  to  be  preached ;  and  when  they  are  listened 
to  one  at  a  time,  and  at  intervals  of  a  week,  this  result 
will  not  follow.  It  is  well  to  have  the  attention  riveted 
and  the  nerves  tightened  for  half  an  hour  in  the  week  : 
but  the  process  becomes  painful  when  it  lasts  too  long. 
We  remark  a  little  mannerism  here  and  there.  An  ex- 
traordinary number  of  paragraphs  begin  with  the  word 
Now:  and  the  term  yearning  is,  we  think,  of  much  too 
frequent  occurrence.  The  result  of  the  abundant  use  of 
this  word,  and  of  the  occasional  heaping  up  of  adjectives 
unconnected  by  any  copulative,  and  of  nearly  the  same 
meaning,  is  to  leave  an  occasional  im|)ression  of  an  ex- 
cess of  the  gushing  element.  There  is  the  least  shade 
here  and  there  of  the  cant  of  the  present  day  about  "  the 
res])onse  of  our  deepest  nature,"  —  its  "instinctive  throb," 
and  its  "  instinctive  yearnings,"  —  phra.ses  which  to  plain 
folk  mean  just  nothing  at  all.  We  confess  that  we  do  not 
like  the  word  fair  several  times  applied  to  the  Almighty 
—  "  the  alone  Infinitely  True  and  H'>ly  and  Fair."  The 
word  suggests  ideas  which  are  not  in  harmony  with  so 
eoleran  an  ap[)lication  of  it.  And  as  we  are  fault-finding 
at  any  rate,  we  may  here  state  that  in  all  the  volume 
there  is  but  a  single  passage  which  appears  to  us  to  be  in 
glaringly  and  painfully  bad  taste :  so  much  and  so  disa- 
greeably so  that  we  wonder  that  Mr.  Caird  should  have 
published  it.  It  is  that  passage  in  which  heaven  is  de- 
scribed as  a  place  — 


CONCERNING  A  GREAf  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   351 

where,  heart  to  henrt  with  God,  happy  souls  revel  unsated,  undazzled,  in 
the  Essential  Element  of  Love. 

Tlie  description  appear.^  to  us  most  irreverent,  and  ita 
entire  strain  most  unbecoming.  Mr.  Spurgeon  could 
liardiy  have  said  anything  worse.  We  have  drawn 
tiie  pen  through  it  in  our  copy,  that  our  pleasure  ia 
reading  the  volume  may  not  be  interrupted  by  its  jar- 
ring and  irritating  effect  ;  and  we  trust  that  in  the  future 
editions  which  are  sure  to  be  wanted,  Mr.  Caird  will 
strike  the  entire  passage  out.  It  is  most  unworthy  of 
him. 

We  do  not  know  whether  Mr.  Caird  was  accustomed 
to  preach  such  sermons  as  those  now  published  to  his 
country  congregation.  Tliere  are  many  phrases  and 
sentences  in  them  which  to  rustics  would  be  quite  un- 
intelligible. What  could  a  ploughman  make  of  the  fol- 
lowing question  :  — • 

Wliat  elements  must  we  eliminate  from  suffering  caused  by  sin  in 
forming  our  ideal  of  suffering  purity?  —  (p.  171.) 

But  as  we  know  that  Madame  Rachel,  by  her  wonder- 
fully expressive  gesticulation,  succeeded,  while  in  Russia, 
in  making  her  meaning  intelligible  to  people  who  did  not 
understand  the  language  which  she  s[)oke,  so  Mr.  Caird 
may  have  been  able  to  get  country  folk  to  understand 
the  general  drift  of  sentences  containing  many  words 
whose  sense  they  did  not  know.  And  indeed  the  late 
Hugh  Miller  maintains  that  sermons  which  are  in  a 
considerable  degree  over  the  heads  of  a  rural  congre- 
gation, are  the  most  likely  both  to  interest  and  imprjvo 
them. 

By  this  time,  we  doubt  not,  our  readers  are  impatient 
of  our  remarks,  and  would  like  to  hear  Mr.  Caird  speak 
for  himself.  We  proceed  to  give  a  morr  specific  account 
of  the  contents  of  the  volume. 


352   CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PKKACHER. 

It  contains  eleven  sermons,  the  fourth  being  divided 
into  two  parts,  intended,  we  presume,  to  be  preached  at 
different  times ;  and  a  glance  at  the  Table  of  Contents 
at  once  makes  us  suspect  that  the  sermons  have,  with  a 
view  to  publication,  been  materially  changed  from  what 
they  were  when  they  were  preached.  Sermons  in  Scot- 
land, as  in  England,  have  a  sort  of  average  length,  from 
which  they  do  not  deviate  malerially  except  on  extra- 
ordinary occasions.  But  while  Mr.  Caird's  first  sermon 
occupies  forty  pages,  the  second  occupies  only  twenty-five, 
the  fourth  twenty,  and  the  fifth  thirteen.  The  first  ser- 
mon is  thus  three  times  as  long  as  the  fifth,  and  twice 
as  long  as  the  fourth.  So  if  the  fifth  sermon  be  of  the 
standard  Scotch  length  of  three  quarters  of  an  hour, 
the  first  would  occupy  in  the  delivery  two  hours  and  a 
quarter.  Or  if  the  first  sermon  is  to  be  taken  as  the 
standard,  the  fit"th  would  crumple  up  into  the  ''just 
fifteen  minutes." 

The  subject  of  the  first  sermon  is  The  Self-evidencing 
Nature  of  Divine  Truth  ;  its  text  is,  "  By  manifestation 
of  the  truth  commending  ourselves  to  every  man's  con- 
science in  the  sight  of  God."  (2  Cor.  iv.  2.)  It  is  a 
scholarly  and  masterly  production  ;  but  the  thought 
which  forms  its  staple  is  more  severe  than  is  usual  in 
INIr.  Caird's  discourses.  It  is,  in  short,  a  view  set  out 
with  consummate  tact  and  ingenuity,  of  the  internal  evi- 
dence of  the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion.  We  should 
ask  our  university  men  and  our  clergy  to  read  this  ser- 
mon the  first.  They  will  find  in  it  a  strict  and  unerring 
logic,  great  skill  in  simplifying  and  illustrating  abstract 
ideas,  and  a  style  which  could  scarcely  be  improved. 
But  when  we  pass  to  the  discourse  which  stands  next  in 
order  we  find  much  clearer  indications  of  the  power  of 
the  popular  orator. 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   353 

It  is  on  Self -Ignorance ;  llie  text,  "Who  can  under- 
stand his  errors."  (Psahn  xix.  12.)  We  almost  wonder 
in  reading  the  former  sermon  how  jVIr.  Caird  can  be  so 
])opuUir  ;  but  when  we  read  this,  more  especially  if  we 
have  heard  Mr.  Caird  jireach,  and  can  imagine  the 
fashion  in  which  he  would  deliver  many  passages,  we 
have  less  difficulty  in  understanding  the  matter.  Here 
is  the  introduction,  which  would  arrest  atlention  at 
once :  — 

Of  all  kinds  of  ignorance,  that  which  is  the  most  stranjie,  and,  in  so 
far  as  it  is  voluntary,  the  most  culpable,  is  our  ignorance  of  self.  For 
not  o\\\y  is  the  subject  in  this  case  that  which  might  be  expected  to 
possess  for  us  the  greatest  interest,  but  it  is  the  one  concerning  which 
we  have  amplest  facilities  and  opportunities  of  iiitbrmation.  Who  of  us 
would  not  think  it  a  strange  and  unaccountable  story,  could  it  be  told 
of  any  man  now  present,  that  for  years  he  had  harbored  under  his  roof 
a  ^uest  whose  face  he  had  never  seen  —  a  constant  inmate  of  his  home, 
who  was  yet  to  him  altogether  unknown  V  It  is  no  supposition  how- 
ever, but  an  unquestionable  fact,  that  to  not  a  few  of  us,  from  the  first 
moment  of  existence  there  has  been  present,  not  beneath  the  roof,  but 
within  the  breast,  a  mj'sterious  resident,  an  inseparable  companion, 
nearer  to  us  than  friend  or  brother,  yet  of  whom  after  all  we  know 
little  or  nothing.  What  man  of  intelligence  amongst  us  would  not  be 
ashamed  to  have  had  in  his  possession  for  years  some  rare  or  univer- 
sally admired  volume  with  its  leaves  uncut?  or  to  be  the  proprietor  of 
a  repository  tilled  with  the  most  exquisite  |)roductions  of  genius,  and 
the  rarest  specimens  in  science  and  art,  which  yet  he  himself  never 
thouglit  of  entering?  Yet  surely  no  book  so  worthy  of  perusal,  no 
chamber  containing  objects  of  study  so  curious,  so  replete  with  interest 
for  us,  as  that  wliich  seldom  or  never  attracts  our  observation  —  the 
book,  the  chamber  of  our  own  hearts.  AVe  sometimes  reproach  with 
folly  those  persons  who  have  travelled  far  and  seen  much  of  distant 
countries,  and  yet  have  been  content  to  remain  comparatively  unac- 
quainted witli  their  ONvn.  But  how  venial  such  folly  compared  with 
th;it  of  ranging  over  all  other  depa;  tmcnts  of  knowledge,  going  abroad 
with  perpetual  inquisitivenoss  over  earth  and  sea  and  sky,  wliilst  there 
is  a  little  worlJ  within  the  breast  which  is  still  to  us  an  imexplored  re- 
gion. Other  scenes  and  objects  we  can  study  only  at  intervals:  they 
are  not  always  accessible,  or  can  be  reached  only  by  long  and  laborious 
23 


8/>4      CON(  EHNINC;   A    GREAT  SCOTCH   PiiEACHER. 

journeys;  but  the  bridge  of  consciousness  is  soon  crossed  —  we  have 
but  to  close  the  eye  and  withdraw  tlie  thou^hls  from  the  world  without 
in  order  at  any  moment  to  wander  through  the  scenes  and  explore  the 
phenomena  of  the  still  more  wondrous  world  within.  To  examine 
other  objects  delicate  and  elaborate  instruments  are  often  necessary: 
the  researches  (if  the  astronomer,  the  botanist,  the  chemist,  can  be  pros- 
ecuted onlj-  by  means  of  rare  and  costly  apparatus;  but  the  power  of 
reflection,  that  faculty  more  wondrous  than  any  mechanism  which  art 
has  ever  fashioned,  is  an  instrument  possessed  by  all  —  the  poorest  and 
most  illiterate  alike  with  the  most  cultured  and  refined  have  at  their 
command  an  apparatus  by  which  to  sweep  the  inner  firmament  of  the 
«oul,  and  bring  into  view  its  manifold  phenomena  of  thought  and  feel 
ing  and  motive.  And  yet  with  all  the  unequalled  facilities  for  acquir- 
ing this  sort  of  knowledge,  can  it  be  questioned  that  it  is  the  one  sort  of 
knowledge  that  is  most  commonly  neglected,  and  that,  even  amongst 
those  who  would  disdain  the  imputation  of  ignorance  in  history  or 
science  or  literature,  there  are  multitudes  who  have  never  acquired  the 
merest  rudiments  of  the  knowledge  of  self? 

By  no  means  <i  fkr-fetched  or  difficult  idea,  the  reader 
must  .'^ee  ;  and  turned  in  many  lights  and  brouglit  out  by 
a  thi'ong  of  ilhisti-ations  ;  but  a  good  and  natural  intro- 
duction to  a  sermon  on  self-ignorance,  and  quite  sure,  if 
given  witli  a  sort  of  extempore  air,  as  if  each  successive 
comparison  struck  the  speaker  just  at  the  moment,  to  get 
the  i)eople  to  listen  with  great  stillness. 

Then,  restricting  his  view  to  the  matter  of  a  man's 
moral  defects,  Mr.  Caird  goes  on  to  point  out  several 
reasons  why  the  sinful  man  does  not  "  understand  his 
errors,"  The  first  is,  that  sin  can  be  truly  measured 
only  when  it  is  resisted.  This  principle  indeed  hold.^ 
;_'ood  of  ail  forces  :  — 

The  rapid  stream  flows  smooth  and  silent  when  there  are  no  obsta- 
cles to  stav  its  progress;  but  hurl  a  rock  into  its  bed,  and  the  roar  and 
surge  of  the  arrested  current  will  instantly  reveal  its  force.  You  can- 
not estimate  the  wind's  strength  when  it  rushes  over  the  open  plain; 
but  when  it  reaches  and  wrestles  with  the  trees  of  the  forest,  or  lashes 
the  sea  into  fur^',  then,  resisted,  you  perceive  its  power.  Or  if,  amid 
the  ice-bound  regions  of  the  north,  an  altogether  unbroken  continuous 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   355 

winter  prevailed,  comparatively  unnoticed  would  be  its  stern  domin- 
ion; but  it  is  the  coming  round  of  a  more  genial  season,  when  the 
counteracting  agency  of  the  sun  begins  to  prevail,  that  reveals,  by  the 
r  uding  of  the  solid  masses  of  ice,  and  by  the  universal  stir  and  crash, 
the  intensity  of  the  bygone  winter's  cold. 

Tlie  second  reason  is,  tliat  sin  often  makes  a  man 
afraid  to  know  liimseU".  Tlie  third,  that  sinful  habits 
steal  on  men  .^lowly  and  gi-aduallj.  The  fourth,  that  as 
character  gradually  deteriorates,  there  is  a  parallel  dete- 
rioration of  the  standard  by  wiiioli  we  judge  it.  Such 
are  the  "  heads  "  of  the  sermon,  as  they  are  called  in 
Scotland.  They  are  all  very  clearly  brought  out  and 
abundantly  illustrated,  and  the  sermon  ends  with  a  stir- 
ring "  practical  application." 

It  is  possible  now  to  seek  the  peace  of  self-forgctfulness,  —  to  refuse 
to  be  disturbed,  —  to  sink  for  a  little  longer  into  our  dream  of  self- 
satisfaction  ;  but  it  is  a  peace  as  transient  as  it  is  unreal.  Soon,  at  the 
latest,  and  all  the  more  terrible  for  the  delay,  the  awakening  must 
come.  There  are  sometimes  sad  awakenings  from  sleep  in  this  world. 
It  is  very  sad  to  dream  bj- night  of  vanished  joys, —  to  revisit  old 
scenes,  and  dwell  once  more  among  the  unfurgotten  forms  of  our  loved 
and  lost,  —  to  see  in  the  dreamland  the  old  familiar  look,  and  hear  the 
•well-remembered  tones  of  a  voice  long  hushed  and  still,  and  then  to 
wake  with  the  morning  light  to  the  aching  sense  of  our  loneliness 
again.  It  were  very  sad  for  the  poor  criminal  to  wake  from  sweet 
dreams  of  other  and  happier  days,  —  days  of  innocence,  and  hope, 
and  peace,  when  kind  friends,  and  a  happy  home,  and  an  honored  or 
unstained  name  were  his,  —  to  wake  in  his  cell  on  the  morning  of  hio 
execution  to  the  horrible  recollection  that  all  this  is  gone  for  ever,  and 
that  to-day  he  must  die  a  felon's  death.  But  inconceivably  more 
awful  than  any  awakening  which  earthly  daybreak  has  ever  brought, 
shall  be  the  awakening  of  the  self-deluded  soul  when  it  is  roused  in 
horror  and  surprise  from  the  dream  of  life  —  to  meet  Almiglitj-  God 
in  judgment! 

Of  course  all  this  has  been  very  often  said  before ; 
but  probably  those  who  heard  Mr.  Caird  declaim  these 
sentences,  thought  that  it  had  never  before  been  .--aid  .so 
forcibly. 


3^6  CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER. 

The  third  sermon  is  upon  Spiritual  Influence.  It'? 
text  is  that  passage  in  the  Saviour's  s[)i'L'ch  to  Nicode- 
mus,  "  The  wind  hloweth  where  it  li.-teth,"  &c.  (S.  John 
iii.  7,  8.)  Here  the  preacher  argues' in  defence  of  the 
Christian  doctrine  of  Regeneration,  maintaining  that 
wliatever  difficuhies  surround  that  doctrine  have  rheii 
parallel  in  Nature.  The  "  heads  "  here  are  three.  Tht 
analogy  between  Nature  and  Revelation  is  traced  .c,  re- 
gard to  Supernaturalness,  Sovereignty,  or  apparcm  Arhy, 
trariness,  and  Secrecy.  The  gist  of  the  first  head  i>  give* 
in  a  sentence  towards  its  close  :  — 

If  not  the  slightest  movement  of  matter  can  take  place  wi'hout  th/. 
immediate  agency  of  God,  shall  we  wonder  that  His  agency  is  needed 
'n  the  higher  and  more  subtle  processes  of  mind? 

The  burden  of  the  second  head  is  given  tlius  :  — 

Marvel  not  nor  be  disquieted  at  your  inability  to  explain  the  laws 
that  regulate  the  operations  of  an  iiiliuite  agent;  for  in  a  province 
much  more  within  the  range  of  human  observation  there  are  familiar 
igents  at  work,  the  operations  of  which  are  equally  inscrutable,  arbi- 
trary, incalculable.  Think  it  not  strange  that  the  ways  of  the  Spirit 
of  God  are  unaccountable  to  a  mind  by  which  even  the  common  phe- 
lionicna  of  the  wind  are  irreducible  to  law. 

Then,  under  the  third  division  of  the  discourse,  Mr. 
Caird  shows  that  the  fact  that  the  Holy  Spirit  works 
unseen  is  no  reason  for  doubting  that  lie  does  really 
act :  — 

As  you  have  surveyed  the  face  of  nature  in  some  tranquil  season, — 
the  unbreathing  summer  noon  or  the  IuisIuhI  twilight  hour,  —  every 
feature  of  the  land.-icape  has  seemed  suffused  with  calmni\>is,  every  tree 
bung  its  motionless  head,  every  unrippled  brook  crept  on  with  almost 
inaudiide  murmin'ing.  every  plant,  and  Hower,  and  leaf  seemed  as  if 
buthed  in  rep  ise.  15ut  a 'on  you  perhaps  perceived  a  change  passing 
over  the  scene,  as  if  at  the  bidding  of  some  invisible  power;  — a  rush- 
ing sound,  as  of  music  evoked  by  invisible  fingers  from  the  harp  of 
oature,  began  to  fill  j'ourear;  the  leaves  began  to  quiver  and  rustle, 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   357 

the  trees  to  bend  and  shake,  the  stream  to  dash  onward  with  riiflled 
breast  and  brawling  sound,  and  from  every  wood,  and  glade,  and  glen, 
there  came  forth  the  intimation  that  a  new  and  most  potent  agent  was 
abroad  and  working  around  you.  And  yet  while  you  marked  the 
change  on  the  face  of  nature,  did  you  perceive  the  agent  that  effected 
it?  Did  the  wind  of  heaven  rake  vi.'^ible  form  and  appear  as  a  winged 
messenger  of  God's  will,  hurrying  hither  and  thither  from  object  to 
object?  Do  you  know  and  can  you  describe  the  way  in  which  he 
worked, — how  his  touch  tell  upon  the  flowret  and  bade  it  wave,  or 
hia  grasp  seized  the  sturdy  oak  and  strove  with  it  till  it  quivered  and 
bent?  No,  you  caunot.  You  have  not  penetrated  so  tar  into  the  se- 
crets of  nature.  You  have  seen  only  the  effects,  but  not  the  agent  or 
the  process  of  his  working.  You  have  seen  the  wind's  influences,  but 
not  itself.  But  do  you  therefore  marvel,  or  hesitate  to  believe,  that  it 
has  indeed  been  abroad  and  working  over  the  face  of  the  earth?  or  do 
you  ever  doubt  whether  there  be  any  such  agent  as  the  wind  at  all? 
No;  you  have  heard  the  sound  thereof,  you  have  witnessed  the  stir 
and  commotion  of  nature  that  told  of  its  presence,  and  so  you  believe 
in  its  existeuce,  though  j-ou  "  caunot  tell  whence  it  cometh  or  whither 
it  goeth." 

The  three  "  heads  "  having  been  ilhistiated,  the  ser- 
mon is  wound  up  by  various  practit^ul  inferences,  given 
at  considerable  length. 

The  fourth  sermon  is  from  the  text,  "  No  man  hath 
seen  God  at  any  time ;  the  only-begotten  Son,  which 
is  in  the  bo>om  of  the  Father,  lie  hiuli  declared  him." 
(S.  John  i.  18.)  It  is  divided  into  two  parts,  the  subject 
of  the  former  being  77/e  Invisible  God,  and  that  of  the 
latter  The  Manifestation  of  the  Invisible  God.  The 
preacher,  having  dwelt  upon  the  fact  that  God  is  in- 
visible to  human  eyes,  and  shown  tliat  not  without  de- 
stroying the  character  of  our  present  .<tate  of  being  as  a 
state  of  trial  and  training  could  the  case  be  otherwise  ; 
goes  on  to  show  that  the  Saviour,  by  his  person,  his 
life  and  character,  his  sufferings  and  death,  is  a  visible 
manifestation  of  the  invisible   God. 

We  believe  that    this   sermon,  when    preached,  was  a 


358      CONCEUNING  A  GREAT   SCOTCH   PREACHER. 

very  effective  one  ;  and  probably  the  view  wliich  it  seta 
out  struck  many  ordinary  liearers  as  novel  and  original. 
It  is  not,  huwevei",  necessary  to  tell  the  well-informed 
reader  that  Mr.  Caird  has  here  done  nothing  inore  than 
present,  in  a  somewhat  more  popular  and  rhetorical 
form,  the  substance  of  a  sermon  u[)on  the  same  text  by 
Archbisho[)  Wliately,  which,  being  detached  from  its  text, 
is  now  published  in  the  first  series  of  the  Archbishop's 
Essays.^  Tlie  reader  will  find  it  interesting  to  do  what 
we  have  done  since  writing  the  last  sentence, —  to  peruse 
the  two  sermons  together,  and  compare  them.  The 
Archbishop's  sermon  was  addressed  to  a  learned  audi- 
ence :  it  was  preached  before  the  University  of  Oxford  ; 
and  accordingly  it  is  the  more  critical  and  philosophical. 
Mr.  Caird  intended  his  sermon  to  be  preached  to  ordi- 
nary congregations,  and  accordingly  he  quotes  no  Greek, 
and  lengthens  out  his  remarks  upon  those  parts  of  his 
subject  which  most  admit  of  popular  illustration.  Some 
observations  early  in  the  discourse,  on  the  Invisibility  of 
the  Almighty,  appear  to  have  been  suggested  by  Letter 
VI.  in  Foster's  Essay,  On  a  Man  writing  Memoirs  of 
Himself,  in  which  that  topic  is  discussed  with  a  power 
unparalleled  in  theological  literature.  And  whoever 
wishes  to  find  The  Manifestation  of  the  Invisible  God 
through  the  personal  Redeemer  set  out  in  a  veiy  in- 
teresting fashion,  may  find  it  in  the  first  two  chapters 
of  a  book  of  so  popular  a  character  as  Jacob  Abbott's 
Corner-Stone.  The  view  takeii  by  Abbott  is  precisely 
that  of  Archbishop  Whately,  as  may  be  inferred  from  the 
motto  prefixed  to  the  first  chapter,  which  is,  "  The  glory 

1  Essays  on  some  of  the  Peculinrllits  of  the  Christian  Relifjion.  Es- 
say n.  "  On  tlie  Declaration  of  God  in  His  Son,"  pp.  98-118.  Edition 
of  1856. 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   359 

of  God  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ."     It  does  not  appear, 
however,  tliat  Abbott  was  acquainted  with  the  Archbish 
op's  discourse. 

Although  we  cannot  give  Mr.  Caird  the  credit  of  hav- 
ing thouglit  out  tlie  idea  which  is  pressed  in  this  sermon, 
Btill  he  is  entitled  to  the  praise  of  having  grasped  it  witii 
great  force,  and  of  having  set  it  forth  in  a  discourse 
which  would  produce  a  strong  popular  effect.  Tt  must 
be  said,  however,  that  the  style  of  this  sermon  is  ambi- 
lious  to  a  somewhat  extravagant  degree  ;  in  taste  and 
accuracy  it  is  very  inferior  to  several  of  the  other  ser- 
mons in  the  volume.  We  should  judge  it  to  have  been 
a  comparatively  juvenile  production,  which  its  author 
has  got  so  fond  of  that  he  cannot  now  try  it  by  the  same 
severe  standard  as  his  recent  compositions.  And  we  are 
not  sure  if  the  phrase,  a  woe  that  Deity  could  feel,  con- 
tains very  sound  tlieology.  Deity  can  feel  nothing  like 
woe. 

The  sermon  which  comes  next  is,  we  think,  one  of  the 
most  eloquent  in  the  book  :  it  contains,  perhaps,  finer 
passages  than  any  other.  And  although  it  is  highly 
wrought  up  in  sevend  parts,  there  is  not  a  word  in  it  to 
which  the  severest  critic  coidd  take  exception.  It  is  on 
The  Solitariness  of  Christ's  Sufferings :  the  text,  "  I  have 
trodden  the  wine-press  alone."  It  sets  out  with  the  fol- 
lowing beautiful  and  natural  introduction  :  — 

There  is  always  a  certain  dejjree  of  solitude  about  a  great  niiiul 
Even  a  mere  liumaii  being  cannot  rise  preeminently  above  the  level  of 
his  fellow-men  without  becoming  conscious  of  a  certain  solitariness  of 
spirit  patlierinf,'  round  him.  The  loftiest  intellectual  elevation,  indeed, 
is  noviise  inconsistent  with  a  genial  openness  and  simplicity  of  nature, 
nor  is!  there  anything  impossible  or  une.Kanipled  in  the  combinitiun  of 
a  grasp  of  intellect  that  couUl  cojie  with  the  loftiest  abstractions  of  phil- 
osophy, and  a  playfulness  that  could  condescend  to  sport  with  a  child. 
Yet  whilst  it  is  thus  true  that  the  possessor  of  a  great  mind  may  l>e 


360       CONCEUNIXG  A   GUEAT   SCOTCH   PKEACHER. 

capable  of  sympatlii/Jiig  witli,  of  entering  kindly  into  the  views  and 
feelings,  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  interior  minds,  it  must  at  the  same 
time  be  admitted  that  tliere  is  ever  a  range  of  tliought  and  feeling  into 
which  they  cannot  enter  with  him.  They  may  acconipan}-  him,  so  to 
Fpeak,  a  certain  height  up  the  mountain,  but  there  is  a  point  at  which 
their  feebler  i)Owers  become  exhausted,  and  if  he  ascend  beyond  that, 
his  path  must  be  a  solitary  one. 

What  is  thus  true  of  all  great  minds  must  have  been,  beyond  all 
others,  characteristic  of  the  niiud  of  lliin  who,  with  all  his  real  and 
very  humanity,  could  "  think  it  no  robbery  to  be  equal  with  God." 
Jesus  was  indeed  a  lonely  being  in  the  world.  With  all  the  exquisite 
tenderness  of  his  human  sympathies,  —  touched  with  the  feeling  of  our 
every  .'sinless  intirmity,  —  with  a  heart  that  could  feel  lor  a  peasant's 
sorrow,  and  an  eye  tiiat  could  beam  with  tenderness  on  an  infant's  face, 
—  he  was  3'et  one  who,  wherever  he  went,  and  bj'  whomsoever  sur- 
rounded, was,  in  the  secrecy  of  his  inner  being,  profoundly  alone.  You 
who  are  parents  have,  I  dare  say,  often  felt  struck  by  the  reflection, 
wliat  a  world  of  thoughts,  and  cares,  and  anxieties  arc  constantly 
present  to  your  minds  into  which  your  children  cannot  enter.  You 
maj-  be  continually  amongst  them,  holding  familiar  intercourse  with 
them,  condescending  to  all  their  childish  thoughts  and  feeling.s,  enter- 
ing into  all  their  childish  ways,  —  j-et  every  day  there  are  a  thousand 
things  passing  througli  your  mind,  with  respect,  for  instance,  to  your 
business  or  prolession,  your  schemes  and  projects,  yiur  troubles,  fears, 
hopes  and  ambitions  in  life,  your  social  connections,  the  incidents  and 
events  that  are  going  on  in  the  world  around  you,  —  there  are  a  thou- 
sand reflections  and  feelings  on  such  matters  passing  daily  through 
your  mind,  of  which  your  children  know  nothing.  You  never  dream 
of  talking  to  them  on  such  subjects,  and  the}-  could  not  understand  or 
sympathize  with  you  if  you  did.  There  is  a  little  world  in  which  the 
play  of  their  passions  is  strong  and  vivid,  but  beyond  that  their  s^-in- 
pathies  entirely  fail.  And  perhaps  there  is  no  spectacle  so  ex(iuisitely 
touching  as  that  wliich  one  sometimes  witnesses  in  a  house  of  mourn- 
ing—  the  elder  members  of  the  family  bowed  down  to  the  dust  by 
some  heavy  sorrow,  whilst  the  little  children  sport  around  in  uncon- 
acious  playfulness. 

•  The  bearing  of  this  illustration  is  obvious.  What  children  are  to  the 
mature-minded  man,  the  rest  of  mankind  were  to  Jesus. 

The  pi'caclier  goes  on  to  .*ay  that  he  intends  to  follow 
out  the  thought  of  Christ's  solitariness  with  particular 
reference  to  his  sorrows.     And  ho  does  so  with  eloquence 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   3GI 

SO  impressive  that  we  regret  we  can  find  room  for  no  fur- 
ther specimens  of  it. 

We  have  not  space  to  do  more  than  mention  tlie  sub- 
jects of  the  remaining  sermons  which  make  up  the  vol- 
ume. The  sermon  wliich  follows  that  on  The  Solitariness 
of  Christ's  Sufferings,  is  a  sort  of  companion  piece,  on 
the  text  "  Rejoice,  inasmuch  as  ye  are  partakers  of  the 
sufferings  of  Christ."  (I  Peter  iv.  13.)  Tiiere  is  a  dis- 
course on  Spiritual  Rest  which  we  think  less  hap[)y  ;  a 
very  able  one  on  the  text,  "  I  wi,-h  that  thou  mayest 
prosper  and  be  in  health  even  as  thy  soul  prospereth," 
(3  John  2)  ;  another  admirable  sermon  on  "  All  things 
are  yours,"  whirh  Mr.  Caird  preached  before  the  Queen 
last  autumn.  There  is  a  temperate  and  judicious  ser- 
mon on  TJie  Simplicity  of  Christian  Ritual,  in  which  the 
author  cautions  us  against  aitachiiig  too  much  consequence 
to  such  things  as  church  architecture  and  stately  church 
services.  At  the  same  time  Mr.  Caird  describes  these 
perilous  delights  with  such  manifest  gusto,  that  it  is  quite 
obvious  he  would  have  no  serious  objections  to  the  cathe- 
dral worship  and  to  York  Minster.  It  is  indeed  quite 
true  that  — 

There  is  a  semi-sensuous  delight  in  religious  worship  imposingly  con- 
ilucted,  which  maybe  felt  by  the  least  conscientious  even  more  than  by 
the  sincere!}'  devout.  The  soul  tiiat  is  devoid  of  true  reverence  to- 
wards God  may  be  rapt  into  a  spurious  elation  while  in  rich  and  solemn 
tones  the  loud-voiced  organ  peals  J'orth  his  praise.  The  heart  that  never 
felt  one  throb  of  love  to  Christ  may  thrill  with  an  ecstasy  of  sentimental 
tenderness  while  soft  voices  now  blending,  now  dividing,  in  combined 
or  responsive  strains,  celebrate  the  glories  of  redeeming  love.  And  not 
seldom  the  most  sensual  and  profligate  of  men  have  owned  to  that 
otrange,  undertned,  yet  delicious  feeling  of  awe  and  elevation  that  steuU 
over  the  spirit  in  some  fair  adorned  temple  on  whicli  all  the  resources 
of  art  have  been  lavished,  where  soft  light  floods  the  air  and  mystic 
Bhadows  play  over  pillar  and  arch  and  vaulted  roof,  and  the  hushed 
and  solemn  stillness  is  broken  only  by  the  voice  of  prayer  or  praise. 


362   CONCERKING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER. 

All  quite  true  ;  but  though  no  doubt  sucli  feeling  as 
Mr.  Ciiird  describes  is  not  religion,  it  may  prepare  the 
way  for  receiving  iinpi'essions  which  are  properly  relig- 
ious. Nor  can  we  evade  the  grand  principle,  that  we 
ought  to  consecrate  to  the  Almighty  our  very  best  in 
architecture  and  in  melody  as  in  everything  else,  by  the 
reflection  that  sucli  things,  like  all  others  in  this  world, 
may  be  abused.  And,  by  the  way,  Mr.  Caird  appears 
to  have  forgotten  to  tell  his  hearers  that  if  worshippers 
in  the  south  may  mistake  their  assthetic  enjoyment  of 
beautiful  ciiurch-worshi[)  for  true  devotion,  thei'e  is  at 
least  as  much  risk  that  wor.-hippers  farther  north  may 
confuse  their  enjoyment  of  the  intellectual  treat  of  listen- 
ing to  impassioned  and  brilliant  pulpit-oratory  with  a  real 
reception  of  the  great  truths  which  are  in  such  oratory 
set  forth.  If  Anglicans  must  smash  their  stained-glass, 
board  over  their  vaulted  roofs,  and  turn  off  their  cathe- 
dral choristers,  then  ought  Mr.  Caird  to  cut  out  hia 
imagery,  to  destroy  the  rhythm  of  the  last  sentences  of 
his  paragraphs,  and  to  cultivate  a  chronic  sore-throat. 
If  it  be  right  for  a  clergyman  to  labor  day  and  night  to 
make  his  sermon  beautiful,  why  not  his  church  as  well? 
And  if  the  church  must  be  only  moderately  beautiful, 
then  the  preaching  must  not  be  obtrusively  so.  Does 
Mr.  Caird  mean  to  insinuate  a  covert  assurance,  that 
lowever  pleasing  and  admirable  his  discourses  may  be, 
lie  could,  were  it  not  for  fear  of  exciting  aesthetic  emo- 
tion, make  them  a  great  deal  better  ? 

The  last  sermon  in  the  volume  is  on  The  Comparative 
Influence  of  Character  and  Doctrine.  The  text  is  "  Take 
heed  unto  thyself,  and  unto  ti»e  doctrine."  (1  Tim.  iv.  16.) 
And  Mr.  Caird,  not  perhaps  witii  very  critical  accuracy, 
maintains  thai    St.  Paul,  in    writing  that  text,  placed  the 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   363 

two  matters  to  be  attended  to  in  the  order  of  their  impor- 
tance: thus  signifying  that  the  life  was  of  more  moment 
than  the  instruction  ;  that  it  was  the  preacher's  duty  to 
take  heed,  first  to  himself,  and  secondly  to  his  doctrine. 
Whether  the  general  principle  be  implied  in  the  text  or 
not,  theie  is  no  doubt  it  is  a  sound  one ;  and  the  sermon 
enforces  the  old  story,  that  example  is  better  than  precept^ 
with  extraordinary  ability  and  eloquence. 

Thus  have  "We  endeavored,  as  regards  these  discourses  of 
Mr,  Caird,  to  do  what  we  used  to  do  every  Sunday  even- 
ing when  we  were  children  at  home  :  to  wit,  to  ''  give  an 
account  of  the  sermons."  It  was  rather  wearisome  work 
then,  we  remember ;  we  trust  our  readers  have  not  found 
it  so  now.  Let  us  add,  that  fine  as  are  these  published 
sermons,  we  are  not  sure  that  they  are  Mr.  Caird's  best. 
Authors  are  proverbially  bad  judges  of  their  own  pro- 
ductions, and  preachers  are  no  exceptions  to  the  rule. 
And  we  have  heard  from  some  of  the  author's  warm  ad- 
mirers fond  recollections  of  sermons  on  the  texts,  Every 
man  shall  hear  his  own  burden,  Surely  I  come  quickly, 
There  shall  be  no  more  pain.  All  thinys  are  become  new, 
They  have  Moses  and  the  prophets,  let  them  hear  them,  — 
which  are  said  to  contain  passages  which  for  telling  eiFect 
upon  a  congregation  are  not  equalled  by  anything  in  tlio 
printed  volume.  Perhaps  the  great  preacher  thought  it 
as  well  not  to  give  his  followers  the  opportunity  of  ex- 
amining the  red-hot  shot  after  it  had  grown  cold. 

An  amusing  proof  of  Mr.  Caird's  great  popularity  ia 
afforded  by  the  nmnber  of  young  preaciiers  who  try  to 
imitate  hiui.  And  indeed  it  cannot  be  denied  that  sev- 
eral have  succeeded  in  brushing  their  hair  very  like  him. 
Others  can  walk  up  the  pulpit-stair  very  much  as  Mr 


364   CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER. 

Ciiird  does.  Several  have  a  happy  knack  of  wiping 
their  face  hke  him  at  the  close  of  cacli  ''head,"  and  more 
have  successfully  imitated  some  tones  of  his  voice,  and 
the  manner  in  wiiich  he  pronounces  certain  words  which 
he  pronounces  ill.  The  general  impression  h.-ft  on  the 
mind  by  any  imitator  of  Mr.  Caird,  is  that  of  a  very  liit 
goose  attempting  to  fly  like  an  eagle.  It  may  be  sup- 
posed that  only  the  weakest  oi'  the  aspirants  to  the  clcri- 
Ciil  otfice  will  join  the  class  of  direct  imitators.  But  Mr. 
Caird's  success  has  had  a  powerful  influence  upon  young 
men  of  a  higher  stamp,  in  leading  them  to  cultivate  a 
highly  animated  and  impassioned  kind  of  pulpit  oratory. 
The  calm  unexciting  elt^gance  of  a  former  age  is  at  a  dis- 
count in  the  Nortli.  Dr.  IJlair  would  preach  to  empty 
benches  now.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  standard 
of  Scotch  preaching  is  at  this  tiu)e  a  very  high  one.  The 
sermon  is  so  completely  the  great  thing  in  the  Scotch 
service,  that  extraordinary  labor  is  often  spent  upon  it. 
It  would  be  easy  to  mention  the  names  of  a  score  of 
preachers  who,  if  they  were  to  sink  as  far  as  the  Surrey 
Music  Hall,  could,  without  claptrap  or  buffoonery,  com- 
pletely eclipse  Mr.  Spurgeou  in  the  arts  of  popular  ora- 
tory. Poor  as  is  the  worliliy  remuneration  of  the  Scotch 
clergy,  it  is  wonderful  how  the  most  able  and  accompli.-h- 
ed  students  in  the  Universities  of  Scotland  are  found  to 
devote  themselves  to  that  ill-[)aid  ministry.  A,  wiio  was 
first  all  through  the  classes,  goes  into  the  church,  fills  sev- 
ei'al  important  charges  with  great  ability,  and  dies  at  the 
age  of  fil'ty,  worn  down  by  labor  and  excitement,  an 
Edinburgh  minister  with  six  hundred  a  year.  B,  whom 
he  easily  beat  in  every  competition,  goes  to  the  Scotch 
bar,  does  i)retty  fairly,  is  made  (by  the  Whigs)  a  judge, 
draws    his  tiuec    or  lour  thousand  per    imnum,  and    by 


CONCERNING   A   GREAT   SCOTCH   PREACHER.      365 

judiciously  Iuv;banilinn;  his  bodily  and  nient;>.l  enfTgics,  is 
able  to  adorn  that  high  station  to  the  age  of  eighty-six. 
In  six  montiis  after  A  dies,  tlie  crowds  he  thrilled  by  his 
eloquence  have  entirely  forgotten  him.  Yet  possibly  the 
work  he  did  is  remembered  somewhere :  and  crowds  of 
clever  young  lads  in  the  academic  shades  of  Edinburgh 
and  Glasgow  aim  rather  to  be  A  than  L>. 

A  great  deal  has  of  late  been  said  and  written  abcut 
preaching.  It  seems  to  be  agreed  on  all  hands  that  it 
w  ill  no  longer  do  to  have  sermons  such  that  people  cannot 
listen  to  them.  Assuming  sound  instruction  as  present  in 
all  sermons,  the  highest  of  all  remaining  qualities  of  the 
sermon  is  interest.  Whatever  literary  characteristics 
tend  to  make  a  sermon  interesting,  are  good  ;  and  the 
very  highest,  if  they  make  it  uninteresting,  are  bad.  Yet 
how  great  a  [)roportion  of  the  sermons  one  hears,  —  how- 
ever deserving  in  other  respects,  —  are  utterly  devoid  of 
the  grand  quality,  interest.  The  sermons  are  able,  well- 
thought,  and  well-written  compositions,  but  they  are  very 
dry.  Yet  Sydney  Smith's  saying  of  literature  in  general 
holds  especially  good  of  pulpit  literature,  that  every  style 
is  good,  except  the  tiresome.  We  believe  that  church  is 
the  only  place  where  people  do  not  listen  to  what  is  said 
to  them.  "  I  like  so  much,"  said  the  laboring  man  in 
Southey's  Doctor,  "to  go  to  church  on  Siniday  :  when 
liie  soimon  begins  I  lean  back  in  the  corner,  and  lay  up 
my  legs,  and  think  of  nothing."  We  sympathize  with  (hat 
poor  man.  It  is  the  clergyman's  business  to  makf  his 
Mi-mun  such  that  while  it  is  going  on  no  one  shall  be  able 
to  ''  think  of  nothing." 

There  are  two  things  which  from  our  earliest  youth 
have  in  our  mind  stood  out  together  as  equally  desirable, 


366  CONCERmNG  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER. 

and  in  the  nature  of  things  equally  impossible.  The  one 
is,  to  bring  matters  to  such  a  point  that  it  shall  be  pos- 
sible to  get  out  of  our  snug  warm  bed  on  a  cold  winter 
morning  without  a  very  great  effort ;  tlie  other  is,  that 
the  service  of  the  Church  should  be  made  such  that  it 
shall  not  be  tiresome  to  be  present  at  it.  We  believe 
that  in  the  case  of  men  in  general  tlie  most  insuITerably 
tedious  and  wearisome  houi-s  *hey  have  ever  spent,  have 
been  many  of  those  which  they  have  spent  at  church. 

As  to  the  prayers  of  (he  Anglican  ritual,  no  doubt  they 
are  very  beautiful,  though  with  a  calm  scholarly  beauty 
which  makes  no  impression  upon  children  or  uneducated 
people.  There  are  likevvise  by  far  too  many  of  them  ; 
and  we  are  persuaded  that  if  the  truth  were  told,  most  of 
our  readers  have  experienced  that  sense  of  relief  we  used 
to  feel  in  our  youth,  when  our  worthy  pastor  and  master 
of  those  days  reached  tiiat  prayer  of  St.  Chrysostom 
which  signified  that  the  long  service  was  nearly  over. 
"We  are  not  going  to  say  anything  of  the  devotional  part 
of  the  Church  service  ;  because  we  fear  that  no  beauty 
and  no  brevity  will  ever  make  that  portion  of  it  interest- 
m"-  except  to  the  sincerely  devout ;  and  there  we  must 
leave  the  matter.  r>ut  tliere  is  another  part  of  the  usual 
public  worsiiip  which  we  really  think  need  not  be  so  hor- 
ribly tedious  as  it  is  in  most  cases,  —  we  mean  the  ser- 
mon. When  Edward  Irving  published  a  volume  of 
discourses,  instead  of  designating  them  by  the  usual 
name  of  sermons,  he  preferred  to  descrilje  them  on  his 
title-page  as  Orations ;  mentioning  as  his  reason  tlie  well- 
ascertained  fact,  that  there  is  sometiiing  in  the  very  name 
of  sermon  that  makes  people  grow  sleepy,  and  that  sug 
gests  dulness,  yawning,  and  tediousness  to  the  last  degree. 

We  quite  believe   that  in   the   nature   of  things  it  is 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHEK.   367 

properly  impossible  to  render  serious  instruction  as  mt^.r 
esting  as  light  amusement.  Disguise  it  as  we  can,  work 
will  never  be  made  so  attractive  as  play.  Boys  are  in- 
Rtantly  aware  wlien  it  is  intended  to  benefit  them  under 
the  pretext  of  arau>ing  them  ;  and  the  revulsion  is  instant 
and  complete.  When  Dr.  Chalmers  said  that  the  thing 
which  above  all  otliers  has  tended  to  make  Robinson 
Crusoe  such  a  favorite  book  with  boys  is,  that  no  book 
combines  to  such  a  degree  instruction  with  amusement, 
he  made  a  statement  ju-t  as  absurd  and  false  as  if  he  had 
said  that  black  was  white.  But  while  we  admit  all  this, 
we  believe  that  the  pill  may  be  gilded  so  far,  and  that 
sermons  need  not  be  nauseous  as  medicines  are,  and  never 
to  be  listened  to  but  by  a  conscious  effort  and  as  an  irk- 
some task. 

He  would  be  a  benefactor  of  his  race  who  should  suc- 
ceed in  laying  down  a  code  of  rules,  by  obeying  which 
men  of  ordinary  ability  might  succeed  in  ])reparing  and 
preaching  sermons,  which  should  be  interesting  to  an 
ordinary  congregation,  and  at  the  same  time  character- 
ized by  good  sense  and  good  taste.  Tliese  two  ends 
have  hardly  ever  been  attained  together.  There  are 
numbers  of  sensible  and  correct  preachers,  Avhom  no 
one  can  listen  to  for  ten  minutes  without  becoming  aware 
of  that  peculiar  priclsing  of  the  veins,  and  disposition  to 
fidget  uneasily,  wliicli  are  associated  with  the  last  degre(! 
of  weariness.  There  is  really  such  a  thing  as  acute  tedi- 
ousness.  And  of  the  much  smaller  luimber  of  pulpit 
orators  who  succeed  systematically  in  keeping  tlio  atten- 
tion of  their  congregations  thoroughly  alive  frcm  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  tlunr  discourses,  most,  if  not  all, 
deal  to  a  great  degree  in  what  may  be  termed  cla|)trap. 
Their  sermons  are  often  outrageously  revolting  to  men 


368   COXCEKNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER. 

of  refined  taste,  or  filled  with  views  which  are  extrava- 
gant and  absurd. 

It  is  a  great  end  to  gft  an  entire  congregation  to  listen 
with  interested  attention  from  first  to  last  of  a  sermon; 
l)iit  this  end  may  be  attained  at  too  considerable  an  ex- 
pense. One  can  easily  think  of  various  expedients  that 
A'ould  for  a  time  attract  a  crowd,  and  get  it  to  gaze  stu- 
pidly for  an  hour.  A  person  from  America  preached 
some  time  since  in  some  dissenting  meeting-house  in  this 
country,  ariayed  in  skins  and  feathers  as  an  Indian  chief. 
lie  was  described  as  a  war-chief  of  the  Sometliingoroth- 
erawaws,  and  vast  crowds,  with  visions  of  scalping-knives 
and  wampum-belts,  came  to  hear  him,  till  it  was  under- 
stood that  he  was  only  a  porter  at  a  steamboat  wharf  on 
the  Mississippi,  and  that  his  strange  attire  would  have 
excited  much  more  surprise  in  his  native  place  than  it 
did  at  Manchester.  A  small  boy  of  nine  or  ten  years 
old  was  advertised  to  preach  in  a  larger  building  in  Glas- 
gow ;  and  to  the  disgrace  of  that  town  some  three  or  four 
thousand  people  crowded  to  hear  him  on  more  occasions 
than  one.  An  individual  calling  himself  the  Angel  Ga- 
briel, held  large  assemblages  of  the  Modern  Athenians  in 
breathless  attention  by  preaching  with  a  trumpet  in  his 
hand,  which  he  sounded  at  the  end  of  each  paragiaph  of 
his  sermon.  The  usual  tedium  of  a  church  would  be 
dissipated  were  the  officiating  clergyman  to  turn  a  som- 
ersaidt  at  intervals.  Any  wretched  mountebank  may  keep 
attention  alive  l)y  shi'icks  and  yells,  rushings  about  his 
platform,  imitations  of  the  Yankee  snuffle  or  the  giltberish 
of  Cockayne,  —  in  short,  by  degrading  the  pulpit  beneath 
the  level  of  the  stage  of  a  minor  theatre.  But  the  ques- 
tion is,  how  may  a  man,  without  .-inking  the  clergyman, 
the  scholar,  and   the   gentleman,  —  without  becoming  a 


CONCERNING  A  GREAT  SCOTCH  PREACHER.   3 09 

buffoon  or  a  nielodrainalic  actor,  —  without  eccentricity 
in  the  choice  of  texts  and  topics,  in  illustration  or  gesture, 
—  make  a  sermon  as  interesting  and  attractive  as  in  the 
nature  of  things  religious  instruction  can  be  made. 

There  is  one  obvious  rule  which  is  very  generally  vio- 
lated :  a  preacher  should  take  some  pains  to  make  his 
meaning  intelligible.  JMany  a  clergyman  who  would  not 
think  of  giving  orders  to  his  man-servant  in  terms  which 
that  person  could  not  by  possibility  understand,  is  yet 
accustomed  every  Sunday  to  address  a  rustic  congrega- 
tion in  discourses  which  would  be  just  as  intelligible  to  it 
if  they  were  preached  in  IIel»re\v.  Let  a  preacher  be 
direct  and  straightforward :  let  him  avoid  roundabout 
sentences;  they  are  much  more  puzzling  to  the  dull 
brain  of  a  country  bumpkin  than  are  mere  big  words: 
let  him  put  his  meaning  sharply  and  clearly.  We  be- 
lieve that  this  is  a  great  secret  of  interest.  We  might 
suggest  the  abundant  use  of  illustration  ivhich  really 
illustrates  the  subject ;  but  every  preacher  has  not  the 
faculty  which  enables  him  to  use  this  arm.  Compari- 
sons drawn  fi-om  daily  life  are  a  tower  of  Ibrce.  And 
we  strongly  recommend  to  all  young  clergymen  whose 
pulpit  manner  is  not  yet  hopelessly  formed,  the  reading 
of  a  good  deal  of  light  literature.  They  should  read 
that  to  see  what  kind  of  matter  interests  the  majority 
of  minds.  Most  preachers  have  a  thoroughly  mistaken 
notion  on  that  point.  A  man  who  has  brouglit  hiniM.lf 
to  feel  a  deep  interest  in  dry  tomes  of  old  Theology,  or 
even  in  the  more  flimsy  popular  theological  literature  of 
the  day,  forgets  that  the  human  race  in  general  takes  no 
interest  in  such  things  ;  and  fancies  that  when  producing 
thought  which  he  knows  or  thinks  woidd  interest  himself, 
be  is  all  right.  He  is  far  mistaken  !  Who  reads  Theol- 
24 


370      COXCERXING   A   GREAT   SCOTCH   rRRACHF.R. 

ogy  by  clioice  ?  Ask  the  i)ublisher  of  ordinary  sermons. 
Let  tlie  pivadier,  then,  make  himself  familiar  with  the 
kind  of  tiioujiht  and  style  which  people  read  because 
attracted  and  interested  by  it.  We  do  not  say  that  he 
should  take  that  for  his  model,  or  imitate  it  in  any  way. 
Hut  let  him  see  there  what  sort  of  pabulum  suits  the 
common  appetite  ;  and  let  him  aim  at  niakin"^  his  ser- 
mons if  possible  as  easy  and  pleasant  to  be  listened  to 
as  that  is  to  be  read.  We  believe  that  tlie  main  cause 
why  sermons  are  so  dull  is  that  their  writers  do  not  se- 
riously set  it  as  a  worthy  aim  to  make  them  interest- 
ing. Most  preachers — if  we  except  those  whose  end 
is  simply  to  cover  their  paper  with  the  least  possible 
trouble  —  aim  at  completeness  of  treatment,  at  elegance 
of  style,  at  scholarly  tone  and  finish,  —  all  ends  quite 
apart  from  llie  great  end  of  interest.  Jf  interest  were 
systematically  made  the  great  object  of  endeavor ;  if 
clergymen  remembered  that  unless  they  get  their  con- 
gregation to  listen  to  them,  they  might  as  well  not  preach 
at  all, —  we  are  convinced,  with  average  talent  and  aver- 
age industry  on  the  i)reacher's  i)art,  there  would  be  fewer 
dry  sermons  and  fewer  sleepers  in  church. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


OULITA   THE    SERF.i 


o?i3  HIS  volume  lia>  no  i)reface,  anrl  no  notes 
7-v^  save  two  or  three  of  a  line's  length  each. 
^/^y-y  jjr^v^  Its  title-page  bears  nothing  beyond  the 
>('  \LJoT6'^3  words,  Oidlta  the  Serf;  a  Tragedij.  But 
the  advertisements  which  foretold  its  publication,  added 
a  fact  which  made  us  open  the  book  with  a  very  different 
feeling  from  that  with  which  we  should  have  taken  up  an 
ordinary  anonymous  play,  —  a  fact  which  at  once  excited 
high  expectations,  —  and  which,  we  doubt  not,  has  al- 
ready introduced  Oullta  to  a  wide  circle  of  readers,  each 
prepared  to  gauge  its  merits  by  a  very  severe  test  and  a 
very  high  standard.  The  forthcoming  volume  was  an- 
nounced as  Oulita  the  Serf;  a  Tragedy :  hy  the  Author 
of  "  Friends  in  Council." 

The  disguise  of  tlie  author  of  that  work  is  becoming 
ragged.  We  have  found,  in  more  than  one  library,  where 
a  special  glory  of  binding  was  bestowed  upon  the  book 
and  its  charming  sequel,  tliat  though  the  title-page  bore 
no  name,  the  volumes  were  marked  wiiii  a  name  whicii 
is  well  and  honorably  known.  And  indeed  there  are 
few  books  which  are  so  calculated  as  Friends  in  Council 
to  make  the  reader  wish  to  know   who  is  their  author: 


1  Oullta  die  Serf.     A  Tragedj'.     London:    John   W.   Parker  an1 
Bon.    1S58. 


372  OUr.ITA   THE   SERF. 

and  surely  the  language  lias  none  which  affords  its  writer 
less  reason  for  seeking  any  disguise.  Yet  it  is  not  for  us 
to  add  the  author's  name  to  a  title-page  which  the  author 
has  chosen  to  send  nameless  into  the  world  :  ihougli  wo 
may  be  permitted  to  say,  that  in  common  with  an  increas- 
ing host  of  readers,  we  cannot  think  of  him  as  other  than 
a  kindly  and  sympathetic  friend. 

Accordingly,  we  expected  a  great  deal  from  this  new 
work.  We  were  not  entirely  taken  by  surprise,  indeed, 
when  we  saw  it  announced ;  for  Ellesmere,  in  Friends  in 
Council,  makes  several  quotations  trom  the  works  of  "  a 
certain  obscure  dramatist,"  which  are  likely  to  set  the 
thoughtful  reader  inquiring.  And  whoever  shall  care- 
fully collate  the  advertisements  of  the  late  Sir.  Picker- 
ing's publications,  will  discover  that  the  author  of  Oulita 
publi.^hed  fifteen  years  ago  a  historical  drama,  entitled 
King  Henry  the  Second;  and  a  tragedy  entitled  Cather- 
ine Douglas,  whose  heroine  is  the  strong-hearted  Scottish 
maiden  who  thrust  her  ai-m  into  the  staple  of  a  door  from 
which  the  bolt  had  been  removed,  in  the  desperate  hope 
of  thus  retarding  for  a  moment  th<!  entrance  of  the  con- 
spirators who  murdered  James  the  First.  But  these 
plays  are  comparatively  unknown;  and  probably  very 
many  readers  who  have  been  deliglited  by  that  graceful, 
unaffected  prose,  were  quite  unaware  that  its  writer  was 
endowed  with  the  faculty  of  verse.  We  could  not  fail, 
indeed,  to  discern  in  his  j)rose  works  the  wide,  genial 
sympathy,  the  deep  thoughtfulness,  the  delicate  sensitive- 
ness, of  the  true  poet.  And  his  talent,  we  could  also 
discover  from  these,  is  essentially  dramatic.  The  char- 
acters in  Friends  in  Council  have  each  their  marked 
individuality  ;  while  yet  that  individuality  is  maintained 
and  bi'ouglit  out,  not  by  coar^-e  caiicature,  but  by  those 


OULITA  THE  SERF.  373 

delicate  and  natural  touches  which  make  us  feel  that  we 
are  conversinf^  with  real  human  beings,  and  not  with 
mere  names  in  a  book.  It  is  an  extremely  easy  thing 
to  make  us  recognize  a  character  when  he  reappears 
upon  the  stage,  by  making  him  perpetually  repeat  some 
silly  and  vulgar  phrase.  Smith  is  the  man  who  never 
enters  without  roaring  "  It's  all  serene  : "  Jones  is  the 
individual  who  always  says,  "Not  to  put  too  fine  a  point 
upon  it."  Nor  is  it  dillicult  for  an  author  to  fdl  us  that 
his  hero  is  a  great  man,  a  pliilantliropist,  a  thinker,  an 
actor :  it  is  quite  another  matter  to  make  him  speak  and 
act  so  that  we  shall  find  that  out  for  ourselves.  Most 
characters  in  modern  works  need  to  be  labelled  ;  —  like 
the  sign-painter's  lion,  which  no  one  would  have  guessed 
was  a  lion  but  for  the  words  Tliis  is  a  lion,  written  be- 
neath it. 

Let  us  say  at  once,  that  this  tragedy  has  surpassed 
our  expectation.  It  is  a  noble  and  beautiful  work.  It  is 
strongly  marked  with  tlie  same  characteristics  which  dis- 
tinguish its  author's  former  writings.  Its  power  and  ex- 
cellence are  mainly  in  thoughtfulness,  pathos,  humor. 
Tiiere  is  a  certain  subtlety  of  thought, — a  capacity 
gradually  to  surround  the  reader  with  an  entire  world 
and  a  complete  life  :  we  feel  how  heartily  the  writer 
has  thrown  himself  into  the  state  of  things  he  describes, 
half  believing  the  tale  he  tells,  and  using  gently  and  ten- 
derly the  characters  he  draws.  We  have  a  mo-t  interest- 
ing story  :  we  see  before  us  beings  of  actual  He>h  and 
blood.  We  do  not  know  whether  the  gentle,  yet  resolute 
Oulita,  —  the  Princess  Marie,  that  spoiled  child  of  for- 
tune, now  all  wild  ferocity,  and  now  all  soft  relenting, — 
the  Count  von  Straubenheim,  that  creature  of  passion  so 
deep  yet  so  slow,  so  calm   upon  the  surface,  yet  so  im- 


874  OULITA  THE   SERF. 

petuous  in  its  umler-cuiTciits,  —  ever  lived  save  in  the 
fancy  of  the  poet :  but  to  us  they  are  a  reality,  —  far  more 
a  reality  tliau  lialf  tiu^  men  who  have  lived  and  died  in 
fact,  but  who  live  on  the  page  of  history  the  mere  blood- 
less life  of  a  word  and  an  abstraction.  We  find  in  this 
tragedy  the  sharp  knowledge  of  life  and  human  nature 
for  which  we  were  prepared  :  a  certain  tinge  of  sadnes 
and  resignation  which  did  not  surprise  us  :  a  kindly  yet 
sorrowful  feeling  towards  the  very  worst,  which  we  are 
persuaded  conies  with  the  longer  and  fuller  experience 
of  the  strange  mixture  of  the  lovable  and  the  hateful 
which  is  woven  into  the  constitution  of  the  race.  Here 
and  there,  we  (ind  the  calm,  self-possessed  order  of  thought 
with  which  w<!  have  elsewhere  grown  familiar,  gradually 
rise  into  eloquent  energy,  and  vigor  of  expression  which 
startles.  But  the  hero  is  not  one  who  raves  and  stamps. 
And  indeed  the  fastidious  taste  of  the  writer,  shrinking 
instinctively  from  the  least  trace  of  coarseness  or  extrav- 
agance, has  perhaps  i-esulted  in  a  liitle  want  of  the  terrible 
passion  of  tragedy  :  for  we  can  well  believe  that  many 
an  expression,  and  many  a  senliment,  which,  heard  just 
fur  once  from  eloquent  lii)S,  would  thrill  even  the  most 
refined,  would  be  struck  out  by  the  remorseless  pen,  or 
at  least  toned  down,  when  cahnh',  critically,  and  repeat- 
edly read  over  by  such  an  author  as  ours,  when  the  fever 
of  creative  inspiration  was  past.  We  remark,  as  a  char- 
acteristic of  the  plot,  and  a  circumstance  vitally  afl^ecting 
the  order  of  its  interest,  that  the  catastrophe  is  involvt-d 
in  the  characters  of  the  actors.  It  is  not  by  the  arbilraiy 
Mjipointment  of  the  author,  tliat  ihings  i-nn  in  the  course 
they  do.  There  is  something  of  the  old  Greek  sense  of 
the  inevitable.  We  feel  from  the  beginning  that  the  end 
is  fixed  as  fate.      Like  Frankenstein,  the  poet  has  bodied 


OULITA   THE   SERF.  375 

out  beings  whom  hu  has  not  at  his  command  :  and  no! 
witiioiit  essentially  ciianging  their  natures,  could  he  mate- 
rially modify  what  they  say  and  do,  or  materially  alter  the 
path  along  whicii  they  advance  to  the  precipice  in  the 
distance.  Given  such  beings,  placed  in  Russian  lite  and 
under  Russian  government  :  and  not  without  a  jarring 
sacrifice  of  truthfulness  could  the  story  advance  or  end 
otiiervvise  than  as  it  does. 

The  language  of  the  tragedy  is  such  as  might  have 
been  expected  from  its  author.  There  is  not  a  j)iirase, 
not  a  word  from  first  to  hist,  to  which  the  most  fastidious 
taste  could  take  cxce|)tion.  So  much  might  be  antici- 
pated by  readers  familiar  with  tlic  author's  prose  style: 
but  we  felt  something  of  curiosity  as  to  how  it  might 
adapt  itself  to  the  altered  conditions  of  verse.  Even 
tliose  readers  who  were  not  aware  tiiat  the  author  of 
Friends^  in  Council  had  ever  before  published  poetry, 
might  well  judge  that  surely  the.-e  lines,  so  easy,  so 
tiowing,  so  little  hibored,  so  varied  in  tiieir  rhytiim,  so 
uncramped  by  metrical  requirements,  are  not  the  pro- 
duction of  an  unpractised  hand.  Parts  of  the  dialogue 
are  in  prose  ;  the  larger  portion  is  in  blank  verse  ;  and 
some  graceful  lyrics  occur  here  and  there.  A  pecu- 
liarity of  the  author's  blank  verse  is,  that  the  lines  fre- 
quently end  in  three  short  syllables.  Our  readers  are 
of  course  aware  that  both  in  rhymed  and  blank  verse, 
double  endings  of  lines  are  very  common  :  in  dramatic 
blank  verse,  indeed,  we  fhid  line  after  line  exhibiting  this 
formation:^  but  we  are  not  aware  tiiat  any  autiior  ha-t 

^  To  be,  or  not  to  be.  that  is  the  question: 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  minil,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune. 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles,  &c. 


876  OULITA  THE  SERF. 

employed  tlie  triple  ending  to  the  .same  degree,  or  indeed 
has  employed  it  at  all  exeept  on  very  rare  occa.-ions.  In 
the  first  page,  we  find  it  said  that  ihe  end  of  government 
should  be,  not  to  govern  overmuch,  but 

To  make  men  do  with  the  least  show  of  ijoveiiiing. 
Other  examples  are, 

In  foreign  Courts  'tis  everything,  \.\\\i  precedence. 
From  trappings  overgreat  for  poor  huiivniity. 
E'en  to  yoiir.<L'll'  must  be  unknown  your  benefits. 
Alone  and  undisturbed,  upon  her  luvtliness. 

And  there  is  one  instance  of  an  ending  in  four  short 
syllables :  — 

In  evidence  against  us,  marking  prepuration. 

We  have  been  interested  by  fin<ling  here  and  there, 
throughout  the  tragedy,  several  thoughts  upon  matters 
more  or  less  important,  with  which  we  had  become  ac- 
quainted in  the  writer's  ibrnier  works.  It  is  plain  that 
the  writer  thinks  the  discomfort  arising  from  fashions  of 
dress  a  not  insigniHcant  item  in  tin;  tale  of  human  suffer- 
ing:  he  would  agree  with  Teufelsdrockh  himself  as  to 
the  undeserved  neglect  in  which  men  have  held  the 
"  philosoidiy  of  clothes."  We  find  the  men-servants  at 
a  Boyard  Prince's  chateau  busily  engaged  in  trying  on 
their  new  liveries,  which  have  been  prepared  for  a  grand 
occasion.  The  Prince  enters,  and  finds  but  liltle  progress 
made.  He  lates  his  domestics  for  their  slowness  ;  where- 
upon the  "  Small  Wise  Man,"  a  dwarf  attached  to  his  es- 
tablishment, thus  excu.-es  his  fellows:  — 

Oh !  the  happy  peasants  are  so  uncomfortable,  my  little  father,  in 
their  happy  new  clothes,  that  tliey  put  off  tiie  stiueezing  themselves 
into  them  to  the  last  moment.  It's  a  nice  tiling  a  new  shoe,  nov^;  and 
not  so  very  unlike  a  marriage,  my  little  mother. 


OULITA  THE  SERF.  377 

riie  author  had  thoiijzlit  upon  tliis  subject  befoiv  :  — 

My  own  private  opinion  is,  that  the  discomt'ort  caused  by  injudicious 
ai  ess,  worn  entirely  in  deference  to  the  most  foolisli  of  nianVcind,  would 
outweigh  many  an  evil  that  sounds  very  hig.  Tested  by  these  perfect 
returns,  which  I  imagine  might  be  made  by  the  angelic  -world,  if  they 
regard  human  afl'airs,  perhaps  our  every -day  shaving,  severe  shirt- 
collars,  and  other  ridiculous  garments,  are  equivalent  to  a  great  J^ur:^' 
pean  war  once  in  seven  years;  and  we  should  find  that  women's  stays 
did  as  much  harm,  i.  e.  caused  as  much  sufiering,  as  an  occasional  pes- 
tilence,—  say,  for  instance,  the  cholera.^ 

In  graver  mood,  we  find  someihiiig  of  the  philosophy 
of  worldly  progress  and  quietude,  in  words  which  sug- 
gest (how  truly)  that  the  man  who  would  get  on  in  life 
had  better  not  think  to  carve  out  a  way  for  himself,  but 
should  rather  keep  to  the  track  which  many  other  feet 
have  beaten  into  smoothness  and  llrmness.  The  hero  of 
the  tragedy  says,  — 

To  preserve  one's  quietude. 
It  needs  that  one  should  travel  in  the  ruts 
That  form  the  ordinary  road,  for  else 
The  wheels  stick  fast. 

The  analogy  is  so  apt  and  true,  that  it  had  previously 

suggested  itself:  — 

Get,  if  you  can,  into  one  or  other  of  the  main  grooves  of  human  af- 
faire. It  is  all  the  dilVerence  of  going  by  railway,  and  walking  over  a 
ploughed  field,  whether  you  adopt  common  courses,  or  set  one  up  for 
yourself.  You  will  see  very  inferior  persons  highly  jjlaced  in  tlie  army, 
in  the  church,  in  ollice,  at  the  bar.  They  have  somehow  got  upon  the 
line,  and  have  moved  on  well  with  very  Utile  original  motive  power 
of  their  own.- 

We  find  that  the  author,  very  naturally,  makes  his  hero 
express  tastes  which  he  himself  feels  strongly.     One  of 

1  Coynpnnions  of  my  Solilitde.  Chap.  III.  And  see  the  same  sub- 
ject discussed  in  the  essaj'  on  ConJ'ormilij,  in  Chap.  II.  of  Fritnda  in 
Council. 

2  lbU.1.     Chap.  IV. 


378  OULITA  THE  SERF.     " 

these  tastes,  which  appears  repeatedly  in  his  former  writ- 
ing-;, is  for  woodhiiid  scenery.  "  There  is  scarcely  any- 
thing in  nature,"  he  says,  "  to  be  compared  with  a  pine- 
wood."  Once,  in  api)roacliing  a  certain  continental  city, 
the  anthor  passed  through  what  the  guide-liooks  described 
as  a  most  in-ipid  conntry.  But  the  guide-books  did  not 
know  what  were  his  personal  likings  ;  leaving  his  car- 
riage at  the  little  post-house,  he  walked  on,  promising 
to  l)e  in  the  way  when  it  should  overtake  him. 

Tlie  road  led  tlirough  a  wood,  chiefly  of  pines,  varied,  however, 
occasifinally  by  other  trees.  Into  this  wood  I  strayed.  There  was 
that  ahuost  indescnbal)ly  soothing  noise  (the  Romans  would  have 
used  the  word  susurms),  tlie  aggregate  of  nian^'  gentle  movements  of 
gentle  creatures.  The  birds  hopped  but  a  few  paces  ofl'  as  I  approached 
them:  the  brilliant  butterflies  wavered  hither  and  thither  before  nie: 
there  was  a  soft  breeze  that  day,  and  the  tops  of  the  tall  trees  swayi'd 
to  and  fro  politely  to  each  other.  I  found  many  delightful  resting- 
places.  It  was  not  all  dense  wood;  but  here  and  there  were  glades 
(such  open  spots  I  mean  as  would  be  cut  through  by  the  sword  for  an 
army  to  pass)*,  and  here  and  there  stood  a  clump  of  trees  of.  different 
heights  and  foliage,  as  beautifully  arranged  as  if  some  triumph  of  the 
art  of  landscape  had  been  intended,  though  it  was  only  Nature's 
way  of  healing  up  the  gaps  in  the  forest.  For  her  healing  is  a  new 
beauty. 1 

Tlius  speaks  the  author  in  his  own  person  :   and  his 
hrro  passing  alone  through  a  wood,  speaks  as  follows  :  — 

I  ever  loved  a  wood ;  and  here  I  've  mused, 
Pressing  with  lightest  footfall  the  crisp  leaves, 
In  boyhood's  days,  when  life  seemed  infinite, 
And  every  fitful  sound  a  song  of  joy. 
Great  is  the  sea,  but  tedious;  rich  the  sun, 
But  one  gets  tired  of  him,  too;  joyous  the  wind, 
But  boisterous  and  intrusive;  —  while,  the  wood 
Divides  the  sun,  ami  air,  and  sky;  and,  like 
A  perfect  woman,  naught  too  much  revealed, 
Nor  aught  too  much  concealing. 

1  Companions  of  my  iSoUlude.     Chap.  VI. 


OULITA   THE   SERF.  379 

We  sliall  be  content  to  quote  one  other  instance  of 
pai'allelism,  in  the  notice  given  to  a  matter  which  every 
one  who  lives  in  a  wooded  district  must  often  have  re- 
marked in  his  woodland  wanderings.  Tlie  hero  of"  the 
tragedy  is  asked  to  tell  of  what  he  has  been  thinking,  as 
he  has  been  traversing  the  wood  which  he  enjoys  so 
much  :  here  is  his  reply  :  —  • 

Mere  melanclioly  thoughts,  (it  for  a  servitor: 
How  tliis  tree  here  hemmed  in  its  puny  neighbor, 
Drinking  the  air  and  light  from  it;  how  tliat, 
The  vagnint  brandies  into  shapes  grotesque 
Constrained,  insisted  yet  on  being  beautiful, 
And  lilxe  a  homely  girl  with  one  charm  only, 
Took  care  to  make  that  charm  discernible. 

In  saying  this,  the  hero  of  the  play  is  repeating  what 
had  before  been  .«aid  by  its  author.  And  it  appears  to  us 
an  indication  of  the  lifelike  reality  with  whicli  the  author 
depicted  to  himself  the  man  whom  he  drew  as  he  paced 
along,  looking  at  the  gray  stems  and  the  long  grass  below, 
and  the  green  leaves  and  blue  glimpses  of  sky  above  :  — 

Yes,  Ellesniere,  my  love  for  woods  is  unabated.  There  is  so  much 
largeness,  life,  and  variety  in  them.  Even  tlie  way  in  which  the  trees 
interfere  with  one  another,  the  growth  which  is  hindered,  as  well  as 
that  which  is  furthered,  appears  to  me  most  suggestive  of  human  life; 
and  I  see  around  me  things  that  remind  me  of  governments,  churches, 
sects,  and  colonies. 

We  should  not  be  doing  justice  to  OiiUla,  if  we  ftiiled 
to  remark,  as  something  singular  in  these  dtiys,  that  it  is 
a  ])urely  and  pertectly  original  work.  Its  author  has 
constructed  his  own  plot,  and  itntigined  his  own  ciiarac- 
ters  It  is  very  well  for  writers  who  have  no  higiier  aim 
than  to  supply  the  inmiediate  exigencies  of  the  stage,  to 
quarry  in  the  abundant  mine  of  French  invention  ;  and 
to  copy,  borrow,  or  adapt,  as  the  phrase  now  runs.     But 


380  OULITA   THE   SKHK. 

we  ^liould  have  been  greatly  surprised  had  the  author  o* 
Friends  in  Council  reported  to  that  clieap  method  of 
producing  a  dramatic  work.  It  cannot  be  denied  that 
several  dramatic  writers  of  the  day  have  shown  c;on>id- 
erable  tact  in  toning  French  characters  and  modifying 
French  plots,  till  they  should  hit  the  English  taste,  and 
not  soimd  absurdly  upon  English  ground.  But  to  do  that 
is  a  knack,  a  sort  of  intellectual  sleight  of  hand:  it  argues 
no  invention,  no  dramatic  genius:  it  comes  rather  of  much 
practical  acquaintance  with  the  tricks  and  effects  of  the 
theatre.  The  author  of  this  ])lay  has  essayed  a  higher 
flight.  He  has  resolved  to  give  the  English  stage  a 
really  original  work :  and  holding  firmly,  as  we  know 
irom  Iiis  ibrmer  writings,  that  some  kind  of  amusement 
is  a  pure  necessary  of  life,  and  that  there  is  iu  human 
nature  an  instinctive  leaning  to  the  dramatic  as  a  source 
of  amusement,  he  has  sought  to  show,  by  exam|)le,  that 
without  becoming  namby-jiamby,  —  without  making  the 
well-intentioned  degenerate  into  the  twaddling,  —  and 
without  making  the  great  school-boys  of  mankind  scent 
the  birch-rod  and  the  imj)osition  under  the  disguise  of 
cricket-bats  and  strawberry  tarts,  —  it  is  possible  to  make 
a  play  such  as  that  in  amusing  it  shall  also  instruct,  re- 
fine, and  elevate.  It  is  imt  by  coarsely  tacking  on  a 
moral  to  a  tragedy  that  you  will  enforce  any  moral  teach- 
ing. You  must  so  wrap  up  tlie  improving  and  instruc- 
tive element  in  the  interesting  and  attractive,  that  the 
mass  of  readers  or  listenei-s  shall  never  know  when  they 
have  overstepped  tiie  usually  wfill-marked  limit  that  parts 
work  and  play.  And  we  liiiuk  tliat  the  author  of  Oulita 
has  succeeded  in  this.  A  reftx^hing  and  elevating  in- 
fluence siidis  into  the  mind,  like  a  shower  ui)on  a  newly- 
mown  lawn,  as  we  read  his  pages.     You  feel,  but  cannot 


OULITA   THE   SERF.  38i 

define  it.  But  many  wortliy  people  would  cram  improve- 
ment, a  thick  jionidnc,  down  their  humbler  neighbors' 
thioats,  —  like  Mi's.  Squeers's  treacle  and  sulphur. 

As  the  reader  Avould  expect  from  the  title  of  the  book, 
the  scene  of  the  tragedy  {■^  in  Russia.  Its  time  is  the 
Ix'ginning  of  the  present  century.  And  the  author  has, 
in  virtue  of  his  hearty  sympathy  with  humanity  under  all 
conditions,  thrown  himself  completely  into  Eussian  life, 
and  brought  his  readers  into  an  entire  world  of  scenes, 
things,  and  men  and  women.  Yet,  though  the  scene  be 
in  Russia,  and  though  we  know  from  his  other  works  how 
much  the  author  hates  slavery,  we  find  proof  of  the  calm 
balance  of  his  mind  in  the  fashion  in  which  he  represents 
serfdom.  His  honesty  will  not  permit  him  to  coarsely 
daub  his  picture  for  the  sake  of  po{)ular  effect,  or  to  rep- 
resent the  "  peculiar  institution  "  as  more  glaringly  bad 
than  he  has  ground  for  believing  it  practically  is,  in  or- 
der to  render  it  more  aljhorrent  to  our  feeling.  Nor  do 
we  find  any  violent  exhibition  of  despotic  sway.  "We  do 
not  beUeve  that  the  author  would  sympathize  in  the  least 
with  the  childish  cry  for  Imperialism  which  lately  arose 
in  this  country.  We  trust  the  nation  has  passed  through 
that  crisis,  like  a  child  through  the  cow-pox,  and  that  we 
are  fairly  done  with  it.  Still,  in  the  play,  the  Emperor 
of  Russia  is  represented  in  a  very  favorable  light,  as  kmd- 
hearted,  accessible,  willing  to  listen  to  reason,  and  even 
to  accusation  of  himself ;  and  though  autocratic,  yet  en- 
cliained  by  an  overmastering  and  tyrannic  sense  of  what 
is  right  and  just,  which  drags  him  against  his  dearest 
wishes.  We  have  said  that  there  is  no  putting  of  serf- 
dom in  its  coarser  and  more  repellent  features.  Oithta, 
the  Serf,  is  the  jiride  and  pet  of  the  old  Prince  to  whom 
fhe   belongs;   and  the  chosen  companion  and  friend  of 


382  OULITA  THE  SERF. 

the  Princess  liis  daughter.  No  cruelties  are  described 
as  actually  indicted  upon  any  serf  in  the  course  of  the 
action  of  the  drama:  —  we  can  imagine  that  the  sensi- 
tive nature  of  the  author  would  shrink  from  any  such 
description:  yet  we  feel  keenly  the  hard  iron  links  whicli 
are  present  beneath  the  soft  velvet  surfiice.  We  never 
entirely  forget  the  difference  that  parts  the  serf,  however 
indulged,  from  the  freeman,  however  degraded.  The 
gentle  confidante  is  liable  to  be  handed  over,  at  the  capri- 
cious word  of  her  spoiled-child  mistress,  to  the  execution- 
er's lash.  And  the  naturally  noble  heart  of  the  Princess 
is  well-nigh  ruined  by  the  long  possession  of  unlimited 
power.  We  are  not  sure  but  that  to  the  thoughtful 
reader,  serfdom  is  made  as  incurably  bad  in  this  volume, 
as  it  could  have  been  in  the  picture  of  a  Legree.  The 
way  to  make  us  feel  that  a  thing  is  hopelessly  bad,  is  to 
show  us  that  it  is  bad  at  its  very  best.  If  it  be  a  sad 
thing  to  be  in  bondage  to  a  mild,  silly  old  gentleman  who 
would  not  hurt  a  lly,  and  to  a  warm-hearted  girl  who 
kisses  more  than  she  scolds,  —  what  must  it  be  when  the 
whip  is  in  the  hand  of  a  coarse,  brutal,  swearing,  drunken 
reprobate ! 

The  first  scene  of  the  tragedy  shows  us  Baron  Griib- 
ner,  the  Russian  Minister  of  Police,  seated  at  his  desk 
in  his  bureau  at  St.  Petersburg.  IIi;  is  inveighing 
against  the  Count  Von  Straubenheim,  who  is  on  terms 
of  intimate  friendship  with  [he.  Emperor,  and  who  has 
been  instilling  into  the  autocrat's  mind  certain  political 
doctrines  of  much  too  advanced  a  character  for  Griib- 
ner's  taste.  Griibner  is  the  type  of  the  old  Continental 
politician:  the  Count  belongs  to  the  school  of  progress; 
and  Griibner,  fearing  lest  the  Count's  influence  with  the 
Kmperor  should  bring  to  an  end  the  reign  of  police  ad- 


OULITA   THE   SERF.  383 

ministration,  lias  organized  a  system  of  espionage,  in  the 
hope  of  detecting  the  Count  in  some  proceeding  which 
may  lead  to  his  downfall.  We  feel,  at  once,  that  the 
ground  is  mined  beneath  our  feet,  and  that  we  are  in 
a  region  over  which  broods  the  unseen  but  all-seeing 
j)resence  of  a  secret  police.  We  never  escape  the  feel- 
ing on  to  the  end  of  the  play.  A  spy  enters,  and  informs 
Griibner  that  the  Emperor  again  receives  the  obnox- 
ious Count  that  evening.  ^  The  vulgar  sity  has  his  infor- 
mation from  a  certain  baroness,  a  spy  of  a  higher  class. 
The  spy  leaves,  and  Griibner  thus  goes  on:  — 

Far  into 
The  distant  future  this  wise  man  looked  forward, 
And  saw  a  time,  he  told  tiie  Emperor, 
When  half  the  world  would  not  employ  itself 
In  worrying  the  other  half     Great  sage ! 
He  meant  that  for  a  sneer  at  the  I'olice; 
And  wiien  good  honest  men  would  not  sit  down 
At  meat  with  titled  spies  — that  means  the  Baroness, 
Or  with  the  men  who  pay  them  —  that  means  me. 

Another  spy  enters,  one  lM-moi;ii,  whom  Griibner  has 
got  into  the  Count's  employ  as  his  secretary,  to  maintain 
a  constant  watch  over  his  private  doings.  Ermolai  com- 
plains that  his  post  is  a  sinemirc.  Tiiere  is  nothing  to 
report.  The  Count  spends  all  his  time  in  reading.  He 
reads  theology.  That,  Grubiier  thinks,  is  an  important 
point.  If  the  Couni;  succeeds  in  indoctrinating  the  Em- 
j)erorwith  his  theories,  down  goes  Grubner,  and  with  him 
(of  course  he  is  a  most  disinterested  man)  Russia.  Tiie 
Count,  Griibner  says,  is  to  be  married  :  so  the  Empcior 
and  he  have  resolved:  then  he  is  to  go  as  ambas>ador  to 
England,  where  he  will  probably  make  some  mistake  that 
will  ruin  him,  or  at  least  where  he  will  be  beyond  the 
Emperor's  reach.     Griibner  dismisses  Ermolai",  ordering 


384  OULITA   THE  SERF. 

him  to  maintain  a  most  minute  watcli,  and  chuckles  at 

his  own  i^kill  in  getiiug  tlie  Count  to  take  a  police  tool 

lor  his  secretary. 

Tiie  second  scene  carries  us  to  the  Count  von  Strau- 

benheim's  library.      He  is  among  his  favorite  books.     He 

lays  down  his  volume,  and  muses  as  follows :  — 

One  reads,  and  reads,  and  reads:  one  seldom  gets 

Ilij;lit  into  tlie  heart  of  thing's  —  there's  so  nuicii  floss 

And  fliiH';  and  few  can  tell  what  they  do  know. 

Long  histories:  weary  biographies: 

They  only  teach  us  what  I  partly  guessed 

Before  —  tiiat  men  were  most  times  miserable, 

And  simple  thoroughly,  wasting  their  souls 

In  plaguing  other  men,  and  seldom  living 

What  I  call  life —  an  ugly  dream  it  is; 

And  yet,  with  all  my  faculty  for  sarcasm, 

I  must  confess  that  men,  the  worst  of  men. 

This  scoundrel  horde  of  conquerors,  for  instance, 

Have  something  very  lovable  about  them. 

The  deeper  that  one  goes,  the  more  one's  pitj'' 

Falls  like  a  gentle  snow  u])on  the  plain 

Flooded  with  blood,  and  strewed  with  cruel  carnage 

JyCaving  the  outlines  beautiful,  and  just 

Concealing  what  'twere  better  never  had 

lieen  done  —  concealing  only,  not  erasing: 

'Tis  a  mixed  brood. 

We  speedily  find  that  the  recluse  student  is  not  so 
simple  after  all.  He  knows  all  about  Ermolai  being  a 
spy  upon  him.  He  sends  for  P^rmohii :  says  he  is  about 
to  marry  the  beautiful  daughter  of  Prince  Lanskof.  Er 
nolai  discourages  the;  marriage,  and  says, — 

I've  heard  a  saying 
Of  some  sagacious  world-versed  man,  —  that  marriage 
Must  be  pronounced  a  thing  so  hazardous. 
The  odds  so  much  against  one,  that  it  were 
As  if  a  man  should  dip  his  h;ind  within 
A  bag  of  snakes,  where  one  eel  lies  concealed; 
And  mostly  he  draws  back  his  injured  hand 
Without  the  innocent  eel. 


OULITA  THE  SERF.  S85 

The  Count  is  anxious  to  repudiate  any  notion  save 
of  a  prosaic  marriage  of  convenience ;  but  at  the  same 
time  he  beautifully  de[iicts  what  he  says  he  never  had 
feU :  — 

I  have  a  distant  notion  of  what  love 

Might  be.    I  know  the  dreams  about  the  thing. 

That  there  is  one  whose  every  look  and  word 

Is  fascination,  graceful  as  the  clouds, 

Bright  as  the  morn,  and  tender  as  the  eve,  — 

Whose  lightest  gesture,  as  she  moves  across 

The  room,  seems  like  a  well-known  melody,  — 

And  whom  you  need  not  talk  to  much,  for  that's 

The  touchstone,  —  to  whom  you've  nothing  to  explain, 

Because  she  always  thinks  too  well  of  you. 

In  answer  to  the  Count's  question  where  he  shall  find 
such  a  paragon,  the  Secretary  mentions  the  name  of  the 
singing-girl  at  Moscow,  Oulita.  Ihe  Count  remembers 
her  well.  But  he  s|)ee(lily  passes  to  talk  of  the  embassy 
to  England;  and  then  bids  Ermolai  prepare  a  sumptuous 
retinue  for  his  visit  to  the  chateau  of  Prince  Lauskof, 
the  father  of  his  intended  bride.  Ermolai  goes  :  and  then 
we  learn  from  a  speecli  of  the  Count's  that  he  is  quite 
aware  that  the  marriage  and  embassy  are  a  design  of 
Griibner's  to  compass  his  ruin.  But  he  will  fight  Griibner 
with  his  own  weapons.  lie  will  pluck  from  his  bosom 
the  remembrance  of  Oulita,  wed  the  Princess,  come  back 
with  credit  from  his  embassy,  and  do  good  to  his  country. 
If  he  shall  succeed,  well.  And  if  not,  life  is  already  as 
dull  as  it  well  can  be. 

We  next  tind  ourselves  in  the  hall  of  Prince  Lanskof's 
chateau.  The  servants  are  trying  on  their  new  liveries: 
the  dancing-girls  are  practising  their  steps.  The  "  Small 
Wise  Man,"  a  dwarf  belonging  to  the  Prince,  a  je-ter  of 
more  than  usual  jest,  and  deeper  than  ordinary  wisdom, 
25 


386  OULITA   THE   SERF. 

makes  his  first  appearance.  All  is  bustle  :  the  Count  is 
to  arrive  in  three  houi-s.  Oulita  appears  along  with  the 
Princes?,  the  hitler  promising  her  that  slie  shall  not  have 
to  join  in  the;  dances.  The  Prince  drills  his  domestics 
in  a  manner  that  reminds  us  of  Mr.  Ilardcastle  in  She 
Sioo2)S  to  Conquer.  He  is  a  fussy,  silly  old  gentleman, 
proud  of  his  daughter,  and  picturing  tiie  grand  figure 
she  is  to  make  at  the  English  Court  as  the  Russian  am- 
bassadress. 

Meanwhile  Oulita  has  strayed  into  a  wood  near  the 
chateau  ;  and  there  the  Count,  who  has  chosen  to  dismiss 
his  retinue  and  walk  through  the  wood  alone,  hears  her 
well-remembered  voice  as  she  sings.  Tlie  Count  accosts 
her  with  some  light  badinage,  of  which  Oulita  has  the 
best.  Then  they  talk  more  gravely.  Mitchka,  the  ex- 
ecutioner at  the  chateau,  watches  them  from  behind  a 
tree.  Oulita  recognizes  in  the  Count  the  man  who  fol- 
lowed her  about  at  Moscow.  He  tells  her  that  he  came 
in  the  Count's  train. 

Then  we  are  carried  to  the  hall  at  the  chateau,  where 
the  Small  Wise  Man  is  addressing  the  servants.  He 
speaks  from  a  barrel,  on   which   he  is  seated  :  — 

The  illustrious  Count  Von  Straubenheim,  who,  with  our  permission, 
is  about  to  marrj'  into  our  family,  intends  to  give  to  every  member  of 
the  household  —  something  which  shall  be  good  for  him:  great  guer- 
don, liberal  largesse.  For  you  ^lelchior,  Nicholas,  and  I'etrovitch 
(jjointing  out  three  fat  mgn),  he  intends  to  ask  for  a  week's  fast,  and 
three  weeks'  out-of-door's  work  in  the  woods.  For  you,  Theodore,  a 
sound  scourging  at  the  hands  of  gentle  Mitchka,  that  you  may  know 
how  to  manage  your  horses  better,  and  what  are  the  feelings  of  an 
animal  when  it  is  whijjped.  For  you,  Diniitri,  our  illustrious  son-in- 
law  has  thought  deeply,  and  intends  to  ask  the  Prince  to  have  yout 
wife  brought  home  from  his  other  estate,  because  you  always  lived  so 
happily  together. 

No  wonder  that  the  Small  Wise  Man  held  his  own  in 


OULITA  THE  SERF.  387 

that  household.     We  doubt  not  the  servants  feared  his 
tongue  nearly  as  much  as  Mitchka's  scourge. 

The  Prince,  Princess,  and  their  attendants  enter ;  as 
do  the  Count,  Ermolai,  and  their  people.  The  Small 
Wise  Man  catechizes  the  Count  in  a  jocular  manner  as  to 
liis  qualifications  for  marrying  and  becoming  ambassador  ; 
and  when  the  Count  and  Prince  go  together  to  the  ban- 
quet, he  muses  in  a  very  different  strain.  He  is  pleased 
with  the  Count's  appearance  :  — 

A  noble  presence  and  a  thoughtful  eye, 
But  sad. 

And  Oulita  entering,  he  speaks  to  her  wisely  and  kindly, 
in  a  fashion  which  reveals  strongly  to  us  the  grand  want 
which  every  thoughtful  serf  must  never  cease  to  feel. 
"  Study  to  get  free,  girl,"  he  says  ;  "  free,  free,  free,  free  !  " 
We  now  overhear  a  conversation  between  the  execu- 
tioner Mitchka,  and  Vasili  Androvitch,  Prince  Lanskofs 
steward  ;  from  which  we  find  that  the  steward  has  prom- 
ised to  pay  Mitchka  three  thousand  roubles  if  he  can 
catch  Oulita  in  any  fault  wliich  may  bring  her  under  his 
lash.  Tlie  steward's  hope  is,  that  in  such  a  case  he  may 
compel  Oulita  to  become  his  wife,  as  the  reward  of  his 
procuring  her  pardon.  Vasili  is  quite  aware  that  Oulita 
liates  him  ;  but  that  does  not  matter,  in  his  estimation. 
In  the  crowd  of  dancers  in  the  hall,  the  Count  again 
meets  Oulita :  a  confidence  has  grown  up  fast  between 
tliem,  and  she  tells  her  longing  to  be  free.  The  Count 
declares  that  she  shall  be,  and  gives  Oulita  his  I'ing  as  a 
l)lcdge.  He  has  mingled  unnoted  with  the  throng  in  (he 
hall,  and  Oulita  is  still  unaware  who  he  is.  But  she  tells 
JS  she  feels  entranced  and  bewildered. 

Meanwhile  the  Count  :^eeks  Ermolai,  and  has  an  ex- 


388  OULITA  THE  SERF. 

planation  with  him.  Ennolai  is  startled  to  find  tliat  the 
Count  lias  been  quite  aware  that  he  was  a  spy  of  Griib- 
ner's,  and  is  penetrated  with  remorse  at  the  thought  that, 
while  aware  of  all  this,  the  Count  saved  him  fiom  drown- 
ing in  the  Neva.  He  always  loved  the  Count;  and  from 
this  time  forward  he  is  liis  faithful  ally  and  friend.  The 
Count  tells  him  he  loves  Oulita,  and  is  determined  to 
make  her  free.  He  has  thought  of  several  plans.  An 
adroit  serf,  Stepan,  disguised  as  a  merchant,  will  come  to 
buy  her.  That  scheme  failing,  the  Count's  servants  are 
to  create  some  great  alarm,  and  bear  her  off  in  the  tu- 
mult. Meanwhile  there  is  to  be  a  great  hunt  of  several 
days'  duration.  Ermolai  is  to  remain  bfhind  :  to  send  for 
Stepan,  for  money,  for  horses  of  the  Ukraine  breed :  to 
watch  Mitohka,  to  grow  familiar  with  every  corner  of  the 
huge  chateau.  And  then  the  Count,  left  alone,  soliloquizes. 
He  is  determined  to  go  through  with  his  design,  but  he  is 
not  in  the  least  blinded  to  the  wrong  he  is  doing :  — 

I  am  a  knave,  a  doulile-doaling  scoundrel, 

To  ■\voo  one  girl  the  while  I  love  another, 

For  I  do  love  her  — 

What  should  I  saj*  of  anj*  other  man? 

But  then  our  own  misdeeds  are  quite  peculiar. 

White  at  the  edyes,  shadinj^  into  darkness, 

Not  wholly  black  like  other  men's  enormities. 

Theirs  are  tlie  thunder-clouds:  ovirs  but  the  streaks 

Across  tiie  setting  sun  — No,  no!     I'm  not 

A  fool  like  that.     I  know  full  well  'tis  base, 

Supremely  base;  natheless  it  sh;ill  be  done. 

If  there  were  time,  some  otiier  course  we  might 

Devise;  but  tlial's  what  scoundrels  always  say  — 

If  there  were  time,  tlu-y  would  replace,  repay, 

In  Virtue's  silvery  path  they  wjiuld  walk  leisurely. 

I  am  not  duped  l)y  that.     Seeing  it  all, 

Foreseeing  all  the  misery,  the  mischief, 

I'll  do't,  I  say,  and  take  the  guilt  upon  ine. 

She  shall  be  free. 


OULITA    THE   SERF.  380 

Thus  ends  the  First  Act.  It  has  indeed  wrought  an 
extraordinary  cliange  on  the  Count's  feelings  and  posi- 
tion. The  cool,  pensive,  unenergetic  student  of  theologi- 
cal books,  whose  great  aim  was  the  progress  of  Russia, 
has  had  the  latent  fire  of  his  nature  touched  at  last. 

In  the  Second  Act  we  have  the  working  of  the  Count's 
scheme.  Tlie  hunt  is  over :  the  Prince  and  Count  have 
returned  to  the  chateau.  The  Small  AVise  Man  has  pre- 
ceded thera  :  cautioned  the  Princess  that  a  merchant  has 
arrived  to  bu}'  Oulita  and  her  fine  voice  for  the  Impe- 
rial Opera :  advised  that  Oulita  should  not  sing  her  best 
in  his  presence.  Stepan,  a  shrewd  fellow,  appears  :  tells 
the  Prince  he  has  heard  of  Oulita,  and  with  many  dispar- 
aging remarks,  desires  to  hear  her  sing.  The  Count, 
consulted  by  the  Prince,  speaks  slightingly  of  Oulita,  and 
artfully  suggests  that  the  Prince's  hunting-ground  was 
somewhat  hemmed  in  by  an  adjoining  property,  which 
mijiht  be  bought.  Oulita  sings  :  but  she  has  overheard 
the  Count's  remarks  :  she  now  knows  who  he  is,  and  she 
wilfully  sings  to  the  very  best  of  her  power.  She  sings 
two  songs  :  we  extract  the  former  as  a  specimen  of  the 
author's  lyric  art.  It  gives  us  the  story  of  7V/e  J^nd  of 
the  Rebel  Stenko-Raziiis  Love:  a  story  which  is  exiirJly 
true. 

Tlie  barge  was  moored  on  Volj^a's  shore,  the  stream 

Went  murmuring  sorrowfully  past, 
The  water-lilies  played  amidst  the  gleam 

Their  golden  armor,  moon-lit,  cast. 

Mute  sat  the  Persian  captive  by  her  mate, 

And  gazed  at  her  lover  askance; 
A  little  of  love  and  sometliiiig  of  hate 

Were  couched  in  that  dubious  glance. 

"  Base  that  I  am,"  he  cried,  "  dear  stream,  to  thee, 
Who,  rebel  too,  wiib  •filling  waves 


890  .    OUr.ITA  THE  SERF. 

Hast  borne  my  armies  up  to  victor}', 
And  tloated  down  tlie  gold  and  slaves." 

He  mused;  he  turned;  and  smiling  on  her charma 

He  met  that  look  of  love  and  iiate; 
Lightly  he  tuok  her  in  his  mailfed  arms, 

And  casting,  left  her  to  her  (ate. 

One  lily  more  went  shimmering  'midst  the  gleam 

Their  golden  armor,  moon-lit,  cast; 
That  lily  slowly  sank  beneath  the  stream; 

Volga  went  sadly  murmurnig  past. 

•'  Murmur  no  more,"  the  chief  replied,  "  no  more; 

What  I  loved  best  to  thee  I  gave." 
His  tierce  men  shuddered,  but  from  fear  forbore 

The  Persian  lady's  life  to  save. 

The  songs  are  received  with  great  applause,  and  when 
Bilence  follows  Stepan  criticizes  in  true  musical  cant :  — 

There  is  a  something,  and  there  is  not  a  something.  There  is  a 
feeling  and  there  is  not  a  feeling.  But  there  are  makings,  makings, 
makings.    The  G  is  better  than  the  Freduccini's  G. 

And  after  more  in  the  like  tone,  he  offers  the  Prince 
thirty  thousand  roubles.  But  the  old  gentleman  is  so 
vain  of  Oulita's  triumph,  that  he  absolutely  refuses  to 
part  with  her  on  any  terms:  and  thus  fails  the  Count's 
first  idea. 

But  instant  action  becomes  necessary.  The  Princess 
upbraids  Oulita  .severely  for  singing  so  well,  contrary 
to  her  arrangement ;  and  goes  on  to  speak  of  her  meet- 
ing the  Count  in  the  wood.  Oulita  replies  sharply :  the 
Princess  sentences  her  to  Mitchka's  lash  in  the  morning. 
The  Count  upon  this  determines  to  rescue  her  that  night. 
He  is  well  aware  of  the  risk  he  runs  in  the  hands  of  the 
old  Prince's  vassals  :  but  will  brave  it  all.  Oulita  comes 
to  him,  and   begs   his  intercession  for  her.     He  replies 


OULITA   THE  SERF.  391 

coldly :  but  conveys  in  whispered  interjected  sentences 
his  plan  for  her  rescue.  A  striking  scene  follows,  in  which 
Vasili,  who  thinks  lie  has  Oulita  in  his  power,  tries  en- 
treaties and  threats  with  equal  unsuccess  to  gain  her  con- 
sent to-be  his  wife.  The  Count  and  Erinolai  deliberate. 
They  have  arranged  to  fire  the  chateau  in  the  night,  and 
carry  Oulita  away.  Ermolai,  with  his  tastes  formed  un- 
der Griibner,  is  delighted  with  the  tact  exhibited  in  the 
Count's  plan  :  and  when  he  leaves  to  arrange  with  the 
men,  the  Count  thus  speaks  :  — 

We  sh;ill  succeed  —  I  will  not  let  a  doubt 

Intrude  upon  my  mind,  — we  shall  succeed. 

This  one  injustice  may  be  remedied. 

But  then  the  things  that  have  been  — why  they  come 

Upon  me  now  I  wot  not:  hideous  deeds 

Long  numbered  with  tiie  past.     The  Earth  may  smile, 

And  deck  herself  each  IMay,  vain  thing !  with  flowers 

And  seem  forgetful  of  the  cruelties 

Enacted  on  her  ever-changing  stage, 

Till  every  spot  upon  the  stoned  surface 

Is  rank  with  tragic  memories :  beauteous  slaves, 

Like  dear  Oulita,  forced  to  endure,  half-crazed 

Caresses  which  they  loathe  —  and  children  slam 

Before  their  mother's  eyes  —  and  women  murdered 

(Happj'  if  murdered  soon)  in  the  dear  presence 

Of  those  who  till  that  moment  ever  looked  at  them 

With  reverent  tenderness,  and  now  dare  not  look; 

Whose  corded  limbs,  straining  in  agony. 

Have  lost  —  the  wretch's  last  resort  —  the  power 

To  give  them  death. 

The  earth  may  smile,  I  say, 
But  like  a  new-made  widow's  mirth,  it  shocks  one. 
And  she,  the  earth,  should  never  quit  her  weeds; 
And  should  there  come  a  happier  race  upon  her, 
Ever  there'll  be  a  sighing  of  the  wind, 
A  moaning  of  the  sea,  to  hint  to  that 
Jlore  favored  race  what  we  poor  men  have  suftered. 
There  must  have  been  a  history,  they'll  say 
To  be  interpreted  by  all  those  sighs 
And  moans. 


392  .    OULITA   THE   SERF. 

It  is  indeed  a  strange  inconsistency,  between  the  beauty 
and  gayety  of  external  natiwe,  and  tlie  wickedness  and 
misery  of  man.  And  it  has  existed  ever  since  the  Fall. 
The  Vale  of  Siddira  was  ''  as  tlie  garden  of  the  Lord," 
—  fair  as  anoth<!r  Eden:  the  black  blot  there  was  man. 
And  the  natural  beauty  and  the  human  wickedness  had 
o  be  dashed  from  Creation  together.  "  At  that  one  spot, 
it  is  far  towards  four  tliousand  years,  since  Nature 
bloomed  and  Man  sinned,  —  for  the  last  time."*  We 
remember,  too,  what  tliought  it  was  that  came  sadly  to 
the  mind  of  Bishop  Heber,  as  he  breathed  the  spicy  air 
of  Ceylon.  Many  a  sad  heart  must  have  felt  the  sun- 
shine and  the  green  leaves  a  dreary  mockery  of  the 
gloom  within.  And  how  hard  it  is  to  feel,  that  beyond 
that  cheerful  veil,  there  is  hidden  a  Being  of  infinite 
power  and  infinite  justice,  who  looks  down  quietly  on  the 
scene,  and  lets  the  world  go  on  I  Well,  things  will  be  set 
right  some  day. 

His  plans  being  thus  arranged,  the  Count  proceeds  to 
the  Hall,  where  tliere  is  a  grand  banquet.  The  Gov- 
ernor of  the  province  proposes  the  heaUli  of  the  Count 
and  his  affianced  bride,  in  a  speech  which  is  a  happy 
imitation,  by  no  means  caricatured,  of  the  speeches  com- 
mon in  England  after  public  dinners.  In  the  middle  of 
the  banquet,  somewhat  prematurely,  the  flames  break  out. 
Great  confusion  follows,  amid  which  Stepan  bears  off 
Oulita.  But  he  is  intercepted  and  brought  back  by 
Mitchka,  who,  as  well  as  Vasili,  had  suspected  the 
Count's  design.  The  Count  kills  Mitchka  :  then  he  and 
Stepan  bind  Vasili,  whom  the  latter  must  now  take  with 
him,  as  a  refractory  serf.  Then  the  Count  hurries  Ou* 
lita  off",  with  the  words  which  close  the  Second  AcL 
^  Foster. 


OULITA    THE  SERF.  393 

I  said  you  should  be  free,  and  free  you  are. 

Your  horses  wait;  the  road  is  clear  to  Moscow. 

He  goes  with  you  {pr.hiliiuj  to  Stepan),  and  will  insure  your  safety, 

Nearer:  a  word!     I  loatliu  this  hateful  marriage. 

'Tis  forced  upon  me  by  the  Czar.    Escape 

I  may,  and  then  — 

Xo !  this  is  not  the  time  — 
When  you  are  wliolly  free,  you  can  reject  me. 

In  the  Third  Act  we  are  at  Moscow.  Gi'libiier  has 
guessed  correctly  as  to  the  share  the  Count  had  in  the 
fire  at  the  Prince's  chateau,  about  which  the  Prince  has 
been  constantly  complaining  to  the  police.  Neither  the 
Prince  nor  Princess  has  had  the  slightest  suspicion.  Oii- 
lita  has  been  safely  conveyed  to  Moscow,  and  is  under  the 
Count's  care.  The  Count  is  maintaining  appearances 
with  the  Princess  ;  but  is  afraid  of  Siberia,  to  which  the 
arson  and  homicide  at  the  chateau  would  certainly  send 
him,  if  brought  home  to  him  ;  and  is  perplexed  how  to 
deal  honorably  with  the  Princess,  whose  nature,  with  its 
fif.Tce  mixture  of  good  and  evil,  is  not  one  to  be  trifled 
with.  Griibner  has  stated  his  suspicions  to  the  Princess, 
who  resolves  to  have  an  explanation  with  the  Count. 
Accordingly,  we  have  a  striking  scene,  in  which  the 
Princess  tells  the  Count  that  the  police  are  on  Oulita's 
track,  and  threatens  fearful  vengeance  upon  her  when 
taken.  The  Count  manfully  avows  what  he  has  done, 
and  leaves  the  Princess  in  a  whirl  of  rage.  But  she  ad- 
mires and  loves  the  Count  still ;  and  it  is  on  Oulita  that 
she  determines  her  vengeance  shall  be  wreaked. 

However,  she  relents.  A  little  later,  while  the  Count 
is  with  Oulita,  the  police  enter  the  house  and  seize  her, 
to  carry  her  back  to  Prince  Lanskof.  But  their  plans 
are  disconcerted  by  Stepan  producing  a  bill  of  sale, 
signed  in  due  form  by  the   Prince,  wiiicli  .-iiows  that  Ou- 


394  .OULITA  THE  SERF. 

lita  has  been  f;iirly  sold  to  Stepan.  The  Princess,  at  a 
masked  ball  in  tlie  Kremlin,  had  placed  this  in  the 
Count's  hand.  The  police  have  to  give  up  their  prey. 
And  when  GriJbner  enters  after  a  while  with  a  file  of 
soldiers,  he  finds  that  he  is  duped,  and  that  Oulita  is  be- 
yond his  reach. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Fourth  Act,  we  find  that  the 
Count  feels  the  meshes  of  the  police  closing  round  him. 
He  is  in  his  house  at  St.  Petersburg,  when  Stepan  enters 
to  tell  him  that  spies  are  now  watching  his  house  on 
every  side.  The  Count  feels  that  the  odds  against  him 
are  too  great,  and  he  must  be  beaten  at  last.  The  Czar, 
too,  is  becoming  cold. 

We  next  find  Oulita  in  a  room  at  St.  Petersburg,  work- 
ing at  embroidery.  She  is  perfectly  happy  ;  but  change 
is  near.  The  Small  Wise  INIan  has  found  out  her  retreat, 
and  comes  to  tell  her  of  tlie  Princess's  wrath,  and  the 
storming  and  vaporing  of  her  father.  And  now  it  breaks 
on  poor  Oulita's  mind  what  peril  the  Count  is  incurring 
for  her  sake.  She  resolves  to  leave  him,  lest  she  should 
bring  him  to  ruin  ;  and  as  a  last  resort,  asks  the  Small 
Wise  Man  to  give  her  poison  which  she  might  have 
within  her  reach.  Then  a  most  beautiful  scene  follows 
between  Oulita  and  the  Count.  Her  eyes,  now  awak- 
ened, see  the  traces  of  ceaseless  anxiety  and  alarm  on 
his  altered  face  ;  and  he,  wearied  out,  falls  into  deep  sleep 
as  he  is  telling  her  of  his  travels  in  other  lands.  Half- 
awaking,  he  thinks  he  is  speaking  to  the  Czar,  and  tells 
him  that  "  if  he  but  knew  her,  he  would  pardon  all." 
He  sinks  to  sleep  again  ;  and  Oulita,  resolute,  though 
broken-hearted,  leaves  her  farewell  written,  and  hastens 
away. 


OULITA  THE  SERF.  395 

She  has  taken  a  desperate  resolution.  We  next  find 
the  Princess  in  her  cliamber,  brooding  upon  her  wrongs, 
and  wrought  up  to  a  tigress-fury.  Even  as  she  is  declar- 
ing what  fearful  vengeance  she  Avould  take  of  Oulita, 
Oulita  enters  and  kneels  at  her  feet.  The  scene  which 
follows  is  one  of  the  most  striking  in  the  play  ;  and  the 
more  so  that  our  extracts  have  been  only  of  detached 
speeches,  we  shall  quote  this  dialogue  entire. 

Oulita. 

Madam,  an  outcast  girl  implores  the  pardon 
She  dares  not  hope  for. 

Princess. 

Ha  1     He  has  left  you  then: 
And  you  return,  in  those  becoming  robes, 
To  penitence  and  virtue  —  rather  late, 
Methinks. 

Speak,  girl,  unless  you  wish  me  to  call  Mitchka. 
Mitchka  is  dead,  you  think;  there  lives  another. 
Say,  has  the  Count  forsaken  j'ou? 


What  Count? 


Oulita  {nsing). 

The  Count! 


Princess. 
Why  this  surpasses  patience !     What  Count,  minx  — 
That  Count  who  was  to  be  my  husband,  wretch; 
That  Count  wlio,  to  his  eminent  dishonor, 
Stole  you  away  —  set  tire  to  his  friend's  palace  — 
Slew  that  friend's  servants  —  decked  you  out,  great  lady 
In  this  fine  garb  —  who  broke  his  plighted  word 
For  you, —  the  Count  von  Straubenheim. 

Oulita. 

You  know,  then  ? 

Princess. 
There  is  no  thread  of  his  and  your  intrigues 
Unknown  to  me.     He  told  me  of  your  love. 


396  OULITA  THE  SERF. 

OULITA. 

Permit  me  now  to  speak.     Of  a  return, 

Vou  spoke,  to  virtue.     There  is  no  redirn. 

A  woman  mii^ht  have  tiioiight  more  charitably, 

Of  ;ni_v  sister-woman,  tiioufjh  a  serf : 

Madam,  there's  no  return,  I  saj-,  to  virtue, 

And  none  to  penitence,  tiiougli  much  to  sorrow. 

I  loved  the  Count,  'tis  true,  yet  not  to  love 

1  fled,  hut  to  escape  a  shame  one  maiden 

Should  hardly  have  intlicted  on  another. 

I  saw  the  Count  again.     I  listened  —  who 

Would  not  V  —  ti)  his  fond  words  and  vows  repeated 

To  make  this  slave  in  other  climes  his  wite. 

But  soon  the  bloodhounds  were  upon  the  track. 

I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,  the  avenger's  baying, 

Marked  the  ignoble  lines  of  care  —  his  care 

For  me  —  indenting  that  majestic  brow: 

'Twas  then  that  I  divined  liis  danger,  sought 

To  save  his  life,  myself  surrendering 

To  all  3-our  sternest  cruelty  might  do. 

I  am  too  late,  and  am  prepared  to  bear 

The  now  most  thriftless,  useless  penalty. 

But  hear:  men  are  most  wayward  in  their  fancies; 

He  should  have  worsiiijiped  at  your  shrine,  great  FrinceflS. 

Periiaps  it  was  your  very  excellence 

JIade  him  decline  to  such  a  tiling  as  me. 

He  ever  spoke  of  you  with  teuderest  homage. 

PitlXCESS. 

He  did  V 

OUHTA. 

He  did;  and  one  there  was  who  sat  beside  him, 
Who  joyed  to  hear  your  praises,  for  the  Count 
Said  ever  you  were  most  magnanimous,  — 
Great  as  a  foe,  and  splendid  as  a  friend. 

PUINCESS. 

And  nothing  else,  the  while  he  played  with  those 
Pair  tresses,  said  the  Count,  —  nothing  about 
My  furious  temper,  and  the  dif?erence  'twixt 
Jline  and  the  soft  Oulita's,  —  nothing,  girl  ? 
Sealing  his  pretty  sayings  with  a  kiss  — 
The  false,  the  perjured  man. 


OULITA  THE  SERF.  397 

OULITA. 

Not  false,  nor  perjured. 

Pkincess. 
Ah,  now  we  stir  the  meek  one. 

OULITA. 

What  he  said 
In  rare  disparat^fuient  of  your  great  charms, 
Was  such  indeed  as  migiit  make  any  woman 
Desire  the  more  to  win  the  man  who  said  it. — 
By  that  dread  suffering  image  that  looks  down 
On  us  this  moment,  I  would  die  to  win 
His  love  for  you;  would  worm  myself  into 
His  heart,  to  find  an  entrance  there  for  you, 
And  thus  insure  his  safety  and  your  joy: 
That  safet}'  being  —  for  I'll  not  deceive  you,  — 
The  chiefest  aim  in  life  for  me.    Dear  Princess  — 

[Pm/s  her  arm  rmmd  the  Princes* 
You  used  to  let  me  call  you  dear,  —  be  true 
To  your  great  mind.     Let's  set  our  women's  wits 
To  work,  to  make  the  man  love  \'ou.    There  only 
His  safety  lies  —  and  there  his  happiness. 
'Tis  you  alone  ate  worthy  of  the  Count. 
With  j'ou  to  aid  his  plans,  to  fix  his  purposes, 
Partake  success  with  hiin,  console  in  failure, 
Cheering  with  your  bright  wit  his  melancholy, 
He  will  become  the  greatest  man  in  Russia. 

PUINC'KSS. 

How  blind  is  jiride!     The  Count  was  right,  Oulita, 

Were  I  a  man  I  should  have  loved  you  best. 

Save  him  we  will,  but  not  for  me,  Oulita. 

I  am  not  worthy  of  him,  nor  of  you. 

Nay,  let  me  kneel  to  you.     Cnuld  you  but  know 

What  savage  thoughts  I've  liad,  you  ne'er  could  love  me. 

Let  me  but  kiss  —  that  shudder  was  not  wickedness, — 

I  do  not  grudge  his  fondness  for  that  cheek. 

I  meant  that  I  must  love  what  he  had  loved. 

And  I  do  love  it  [Avs.'ffs  her].     We'll  rest  together,  dear, 

And  early  mr)rn  shall  tiiul  us  planning  rescue. 

His  peril  is  most  urgent.     I  did  not 

Betray  him;  nay,  I  .saved  him  once.     Vour  Marie 


398  OULTTA  THE  SERF. 

Was  not  in  all  things  bad,  —  not  always  wicked. 
Ah,  could  you  but  have  known,  that  fatal  day 
My  heedless  passion  tiireatened  you  with  stripes  — 

[Puts  he?-  hand  before  her  eyet, 
I  am  ashamed  to  look  at  you,  and  say 

The  base  word  stripes,  —  could  you  have  known  how  tenderly 
I  felt  to  you,  never  so  much  before. 
And  how  I  roamed  ;inil  roamed  about  in  agony, 
Contriving  some  excuse  to  make  you  ask 
Your  pardon,  and  none  came,  you  must,  you  would 
Have  pitied  me. 

I)own  at  your  feet  I  could  have  humbly  knelt, 
Imploring  you  to  kneel  at  mine,  Oulita; 
Indeed  I  could.     IJut  then  my  odious  pride 
Stiffened  wy  soul  again. 

Oulita. 

But  more,  you  say. 
Than  ever,  then,  you  loved  your  own  Oulita. 

Primckss. 

Wliat  is  the  worth  of  nij*  love  that  could  do 
So  little  battle  with  my  pride? 

OlI.ITA. 

We  poor  ones, 
Who  from  our  infancy  are  curbed  and  bent, 
And  bounded  in,  know  little  of  the  pangs 
The  great  endure  in  mastering  their  pride 
Long-seated,  deep-engrained. 

Princess. 

Generous  Oulita, 
Always  some  foolish,  fond  excuse  for  me, 
]  almost  feel  I  love  the  Count  the  more 
For  being  wise  and  great  enough  to  love  thee. 
Discerning  tliy  rare  qualities  beneath 
The  sorry  mask  of  serfdom  — 
The  world  would  scarce  believe  its  mocking  eyet 
If  it  could  see  two  women  loving  madly 
One  man,  and  yet  the  fonder  of  each  other, 
la  it  not  so,  Oulita  V 

Oulita. 

Dearest,  it  is. 


OULITA  THE  SERF.  399 

Princess. 

Not  dearest,  I  must  tell  the  Count  if  you 
Saythat  fund  word  to  any  other  soul 

[Oui.iTA  hides  her  head  on  (he  Princess's  breast.     They 

embrace — they  kneel  bt:fore  the  imaye  in  the  corner 

of  the  room.     The  curtain  falls. 

Thus  the  noble  womanhood  of  the  Princess's  nature 
jsserts  itself:  and  thus  the  Fourth  Act  ends. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Fifth  Act,  the  Count,  awaking 
from  a  fearful  dream,  iinds  Oulita's  letter,  telling  hira 
she  has  fled  to  save  him  from  ruin,  and  begging  that 
he  would  never  let  it  be  known  that  he  had  aided  her 
in  her  escape.  Even  as  he  reads  it,  Giiibner  and  his 
men  are  upon  him.  The  Count  retains  liis  fiimness,  but 
tells  Griibner  that  he  is  beaten.  He  is  carried  away,  to 
be  placed  before  the  Czar. 

And  now,  in  Prince  Lanskof's  house,  Oulita  meets 
the  Small  Wise  Man,  and  claims  his  promise  to  pro- 
vide her  poison.  He  gives  her  what,  rubbed  upon  the 
lips,  will  in  three  minutes  cause  death  ;  but  he  speaks 
?s  follows  :  — 

Promise  me  this.     Before 
You  use  this  fatal  gift  of  mine,  bring  back  — 
Bring  clearly  back  —  to  a  calm  mind,  the  days 
When  first  your  mother's  smile  was  dear,  Avhen  first 
She  trusted  to  your  care  your  little  brother, 
And  anxiously  the  little  nurse  ujiheld 
The  child,  as  you  both  strayed  beside  the  stream  — 
Pve  often  wandered  there  —  which  marked  your  garden, 
To  you  a  world  of  waters;  then  your  father, 
The  ponderous  man,  laid  his  large  hand  upon 
Your  head,  saying  you  were  his  wise  Oulita  — 
Then  think,  was  this  the  end  for  which  they  toiled, 
And  if,  on  thinking  thus,  you  can  resolve 
In  one  rash  moment  to  obliterate 

What  they  so  prized  —  why  then  God's  blessing  on  von. 
I  can  say  nothing  more. 


400  OULITA  THE  SERF. 

We  are  next  carried  to  the  palace,  where  we  find  the 
Emperor  and  Griibner  in  conversation.  We  find  that 
the  Count  is  ah-eady  on  his  way  into  Siberian  exile  ;  but 
the  Emperor,  avIio  loves  him,  bitterly  laments  that  there 
is  no  loophole  for  pardoning  him.  Griibner  goes,  and 
tluMi  a  serf  almost  forces  her  way  into  the  imperial 
presence.  It  is  Oulitii,  now  resolute  in  despair.  A 
noble  scene  follows,  which  we  regret  we  cannot  find 
space  to  extract.  She  boldly  tells  the  Emperor  that 
greater  men  than  the  Count  have  loved  wheie  tiiey 
should  not ;  she  justifies  the  Count  against  the  charge 
of  arson  and  murder  ;  says  Mitchka  fell  in  fair  fight ; 
and  a[)pealing  to  the  Emperor  closely,  declares  that  if 
the  Countess  whom  he  loved  were  sentenced  to  be 
scourged,  and  he  burnt  down  a  city  to  save  her,  she 
would  not  think  less  of  the  Czar.  The  Czar  thinks 
she  wishes  to  follow  the  Count ;  but  is  astonished  when 
he  learns  that  what  she  wishes  is  that  he  should  wed  the 
Princess.  The  Emperor  grasps  at  the  idea:  says  all 
might  then  be  hushed  ;  but  adds  that  neither  Princess 
nor  Count  would  consent.  But  the  poor  Princess,  the 
gentle  woman  at  last,  has  come  with  Onlita  in  a  page's 
dress  ;  and  when  the  Empei-or  asks  her  if  slie  will  marry 
tiie  Count,  reminding  her  at  the  same  time  of  her  own 
slighted  affection  and  her  father's  wrongs,  she  replies 
liuiiil)ly  that  she  will,  and  not  seek  his  love,  nor  ask  him 
to  live  with  her.  Tiie  Emperor  instantly  signs  a  pardon, 
and  tells  them  to  hasten  with  it  along  the  road  to  Siberia. 
Still  he  fears  that  the  Count,  iiowever  much  he  loves 
libarly,  will  hardly  make  a  marriage  serve  as  a  means 
of  safety.  But  he  bids  them  God  speed,  and  says  at 
least  they  may  try. 

Then   we   are  at   a   villajre   on    the    road   to   Siberia. 


OULITA  THE  SERF.  401 

We  hear  in  the  distance  the  "  Song  of  the  Exile?  ; " 
and  a  train- of  exiles  enters,  among  whom  is  the  Count. 
Ermolai  is  there,  kindly  attending  his  fiiUen  master ;  and 
the  Connt  eagerly  asks  him  of  Oulifa.  There,  enter 
Oulita,  the  Princess  veiled,  and  the  Small  Wise  Man. 
They  look  anxiously  among  the  prisoners,  and  at  length 
recognize  the  Count.  The  Count  sees  Oulita,  and  hursts 
into  a  joyful  speech,  assuring  her  that  the  evil  dreaded 
so  much  dwindles  when  it  haps  at  last.  She  tells  the 
Count  of  the  conditional  pardon  she  bears,  and  entreats 
him  to  marry  the  Princess.  He  declares  that  he  is  in- 
capable of  such  baseness.  Oulita  then  brings  the  Small 
Wise  Man,  hoping  that  his  reasonings  may  move  the 
Count :  but  the  Count  states  the  case  to  him  ;  and  he 
declares  the  Count  is  right.  The  Count  then  s{)eaks  to 
Oulita ;  says  he  will  yet  return  and  claim  her:  — 

If  not,  I  have  a  loving  memory  always  by  me, 
Sometliiiig  to  think  of  when  I  sit  beside 
Sly  hut,  amidst  the  unheeded  falling  snow, 
Of  evenings,  when  my  sorry  work  is  done. 
Better  so  sit,  so  thinking,  than  in  palaces  — 
A  thought  of  inextinguishable  baseness 
Fast  clinging  round  the  soul. 

Then  he  asks  Oulita  if  she  had  often  thought  of  him   — 

Once  only,  Edgar;  — 
But  that  thought  lasted  long. 

And  still  entreating  him  to  wed  the  Princess,  and  so 
save  himself  for  usefulness  and  honor,  she  applies  the 
poison  to  her  lips,  and  dies  as  she  joins  their  hands. 
Poor  Oulita  judged  that  by  thus  unselfishly  sacrificing 
herself,  she  would  make  the  Count  feel  himself  free. 

It  was  a  useless  sacrifice.  He  tells  the  Princess  he 
loves  her  now,  for  her  true  love  for  the  dead ;  but  he 
26 


402  .  OULITA  THE  SERF. 

lias  no  heart  to  offer.  No  word  says  the  Princess,  lier 
haughty  spirit  quite  cowed  and  broken  ;  Ki'UKjhii  receives 
liis  master's  hi>t  request  to  bury  Oulita  where  she  died, 
and  to  mark  her  grave;  and  as  the  sad  song  of  the 
exiles  is  resumed,  the  Count,  seemingly  stunned  beyond 
present  sense  of  his  utter  desolation,  kisses  Oulita's  face, 
and  resumes  his  march  towards  Siberia.  Ah,  the  agony 
and  wildness  of  grief  will  be  upon  him  to-morrow  !  And 
by  the  fair  serfs  corpse,  in  whose  sad  lot  and  noblest 
heart  we  have  grown  to  feel  an  intei'est  so  profound, 
there  sits,  with  covered  face,  tlie  Small  Wise  Man  ;  —  a 
jester  to  smile  at  no  more,  but  a  figure  of  overwhelming 
pathos. 

Ulionneur  oblige!  How  hard  some  men  would  find  it 
to  understand  the  invisible  restraints  that  drove  the  Count 
into  exile,  while  fortune,  fame,  and  power  were  beckoning 
him  back  if  he  would  but  come  I  And  how  hard,  too,  to 
understand  Oulita's  noble  self-devotion  ;  and  the  self-de- 
votion of  the  Princess,  scarcely  less  complete  ! 

And  now,  as  we  draw  our  notice  of  the  tragedy  to  a 
close,  we  turn  over  the  j)ages  once  more  :  and,  as  at 
every  opening  of  the  volume,  our  eye  falls  upon  some 
beautiful  felicity  of  expression,  some  lifelike  incident 
that  almost  startles  by  the  every-day  reality  it  gives  the 
story,  some  thought  so  deep,  gentle,  and  kind,  wherein 
the  author's  own  mind  s[)eaks  to  his  readei*,  —  we  feel 
how  far  such  an  abstract  as  our  space  enables  us  to  give, 
falls  short  of  the  effect  which  would  be  produced  by  the 
perusal  of  the  play  itself  on  the  heart  of  every  gener- 
ous man  and  gentle  woman.  We  do  not  think  that  our 
nerves  are  shattered  into  a  morbid  facility  of  emotion, 
and  the  hand  that  writes  these  lines  is  not  a  woman'.^ 


OULITA    THE   SERF.  40J 

yet  we  should  hardly  like  to  tell  how  oftei  the  tear  has 
Riarted  a-?  we  read  this  book,  —  how  many  hours  it  kept 
sleep  away,  —  or  e^  en  how  often  and  how  long  we  have 
l)aused  and  mnsed  wilh  the  linger  in  the  half-closed  vol- 
ume. We  do  not  pretend  to  much  acquaintance  with 
stage-craft  ;  and  it  is  possible  enough  that  the  very 
thoughtfulness  which  makes  Oulita  so  fascinating  to 
the  solitary  scholar,  might  detract  from  its  power  of 
popular  effect  were  it  represented  on  the  stage.  For 
ourselves,  we  do  not  think  it  would.  There  is  incident 
rapid  and  stirring  enough  to  keep  attention  ever  on  the 
stretch  :  and  the  reflections  are  such  that  while  arrestmg 
the  thoughtful  reader  who  can  follow  the  track  along 
which  they  point,  they  will  touch  the  mind  and  heart 
of  average  humanity.  Of  course,  if  Hamlet  were  pub- 
lished at  the  i)resent  day,  many  critics  would  call  it  dull 
and  heavy,  and  many  theatrical  managers  would  not  lisk 
its  presentation  on  their  boards.  And  the  variety  of 
rhythm  and  cadence,  the  occasional  abruptness  and  de- 
viation from  common  metrical  rules,  which  render  the 
versification  of  a  vigorous  drama  such  as  some  judges 
would  call  unmusical,  seem  to  our  mind  a  beauty  and 
an  excellence  in  verse  which  is  meant  to  be  spoken 
and  heard,  rather  than  to  be  read  ;  which  represents  real 
and  passing  life  ;  which  is  put  in  the  mouth  of  many  di- 
verse characters;  and  which  is  to  be  listened  to  without 
intermission  for  two  or  three  successive  hours.  Smooth- 
ness, in  Pope's  use  of  the  word,  would  pal!  and  disgust 
by  so  long  continuance.  And  only  great  variety  of  met- 
lical  character  —  even  the  occurrence  of  occasif)nal  dis- 
cords—  can  furnish  the  similitude  of  life.  When  one 
goes  to  the  Opera,  one  must  be  content  to  leave  common 
sense  at  the  door,  and  to  take  for  granted  that  all  thai 


404  ,  OULITA  THE  SERF. 

l)asses  .*]i;i]l  jxo  on  tlie  ba>is  of  an  extreme  convention' 
ality.  But  in  the  case  of  a  tragedy,  if  the  writinjr  and 
the  presentation  be  worthy,  the  s[)ecta(or  should  forget 
that  he  is  not  looking  at  reality.  The  author  of  Oulita 
has  kept  this  in  view.  Yet  while  remembering  that  un- 
varied melody  of  rhythm  would  result  in  satiety  and 
tediousness,  no  one  knows  better  how  to  add  the  charm 
of  nmsic  to  thoughts  with  whieli  it  accords.  Very  beau- 
tifully, in  the  lin(;s  which  follow,  have  we  Mr.  Thacke- 
ray's ever-recurring  philosophy  of  the  afiections,  even  in 
the  trimness  of  modern  life  :  — 

So  dear  that  in  the  nieinory  she  remains, 
Like  an  old  love,  wlio  would,  indeed,  liave  been 
Our  only  love,  but  died;  and  all  the  past 
Is  full  of  her  untried  perfections,  while 
Amidst  the  unknown  recesses  of  our  hearts 
Enthroned  she  sits,  in  tenderest  mist  of  thought, 
Like  the  soft  brilliancy  of  autumn  haae, 
Seen  at  the  setting  of  the  sun. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 
SOME   TALK   ABOUT   SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES. 

BEING  AN  EPISTLE  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  "  FRASER'S 
MAGAZINE,"  FROM  HIS  FRIEND,  CHARLES  ARDER- 
SIER-MACDONALD,  ESQ.,  OF  CRAIG-IIOULAKIM,  NEAR 
WHISTLE-BINKIE,    N.  B. 

'HEN  I  Avas  a  Country  Parson,  my  dear 
friend  the  Editor  of  a  certain  eminent  maga- 
zine came  one  autumn  to  pay  me  a  visit. 
Among  my  most  valued  neighbors  was  a 
certain  country  squire,  whom  (for  various  reasons)  I 
shall  call  Mr.  IMacdonald  of  Craig-IIouIakim.  When 
the  Editor  and  IMr.  ]\Iacdonald  met,  it  appeared  that 
they  were  old  college  friends,  thougli  they  had  died  out 
of  acquaintance  for  some  years,  Tiie  meeting  was  a 
very  pleasant  one  :  and  the  Editor  was  much  amused 
by  Mr.  Macdonald's  description  of  some  of  our  Scotch 
institutions.  Mr.  Macdonald  promised  to  give  the  Editor 
an  account  in  writing  of  some  of  these  :  and  thus  origi- 
nated the  following  letter.  I  may  say,  that  in  the  main,  I 
concur  in  the  views  it  sets  out :  though  they  seem  to  me 
expressed  with  a  little  too  much  vehemence.  And  let 
me  add,  that  Mr.  Macdonald  did  not  reside  in  my 
parish :  so  you  will  not  find  in  his  letter  any  reference 
to  me. 


406    SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES. 

My  Dear  Edilor,  —  When  you  paid  us  a  visit  last 
autumn,  and  renewed  so  pleasantly  an  old  college  ac- 
quaintance which  "■  change  of  place  and  change  of  folk  '' 
Lad  inleiTupted  for  eight  or  ten  years,  you  were  wont,  in 
your  usual  saturnine  vein,  to  laugh  at  the  completeness 
with  which  1  had  iallen  into  Scotch  ways  of  thinking  and 
acting.  1  have  indeed  become  so  familiar  with  the  usages 
of  my  adopted  country,  that  I  see  notliing  very  wonderful 
now  in  thiui^s  which  utterly  astoni.-hed  you,  and  which 
indeed  had  a  similar  etfect  upon  myself  when  1  was  a 
freshly-imported  Saxon.  Quantum  mutatus  ah  illo,  I 
know  you  thought,  who  ten  years  since  walked  in  your 
company  the  quadrangles  of  Oxford,  bent  upon  those 
classical  studies  which  (owing  entirely  to  the  bad  ar- 
rangements of  the  University)  failed  to'  get  me  so  dis- 
tinguished a  degree  as  my  >i.-ters  and  my  grandmother 
thought  I  deserved,  —  not  a  little  given  to  Puseyile  no- 
tions in  church  matters,  and  in  a  slate  of  total  ignorance 
as  to  Scotch  affairs.  But  time  (as  philosophers  have  on 
several  occasions  observed)  works  wonders.  It  is  not  yet 
ten  years  since  the  death  of  a  distant  and  eccentric  rela- 
tive, whom  I  had  never  seen,  made  me  the  possessor  of 
this  property,  in  a  district  of  Scotland  which,  I  thinks 
yields  to  none  in  beauty  and  interest.  It  is  less  than 
that  time  since  I  resolved  to  patch  up  this  quaint  old 
biironial  dwelling,  and  make  it  my  head-quarters  for  tho 
greater  part  of  the  year.  And  I  dare  say  you  were  sur 
prised  to  find  me  so  completely  transformed  into  tho 
Scotch  country  squii'e,  —  walking  you  after  breakfast 
daily  to  the  stab'es,  and  boi-ing  you  witii  long  stories 
about  the  hocks  and  pasterns  of  my  horses  ;  not  a  little 
vain  of  my  turnips  ;  quite  proud  of  my  shaggy  little  bul- 
locks (finer  animals  than  deer,  I  always  maintain)  ;  unci 


SOME  TALK   ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES.    407 

full  of  statistics  about  the  yearly  growth  of  my  young 
plantations,  and  the  gii-fh  of  the  noble  old  oaks  and 
horse-che.-tnuts  on  the  lawn.  But  I  am  sure  you  were 
much  more  surprised  to  find  that  I  had  settled  down 
into  a  douce  elder  of  the  Kirk,  —  quite  cm  fait  in  Scotch 
ecclesiastical  polity,  much  interested  in  matters  parochial, 
and  loud  in  praise  of  Piofessor  Robertson  and  the  En- 
dowment Scheme  ;  and  though  still  a  warmly-attached 
member  of  the  Church  of  England,  yet  a  good  Presby- 
terian when  in  Scotland,  and  quite  persuaded  that  in  all 
essential  points  the  Church  of  England  and  the  Kirk  of 
Scotland  are  thoi'ougldy  at  one.  1  have  been  fortunate 
in  my  parish  clergyman,  whom  you  met  more  than  once 
while  here,  and  whom  you  found,  I  dare  say,  quite  dif- 
ferent from  the  violent,  Covenating,  true-blue  Knoxite 
you  probably  expected.  You  found  him,  I  am  sure, 
quite  of  our  way  of  thinking  in  regard  to  most  things 
sacred  and  civil  :  quite  anxious  to  have  his  church  as 
ecclesiastical  in  appearance  as  even  Mr.  Beckett  Denison 
would  wish  ;  quite  friendly  to  the  introduction  of  an  or- 
gan ;  not  hostile  to  the  restoration  of  the  Liturgy  ;  and, 
indeed,  not  so  much  shocked  as  he  ouglii  to  have  been 
when  you  and  I  speculated  as  to  the  probable  time  that 
must  elapse  before  the  peaceable  recepticm  of  episco- 
pal government.  Let  me  add  to  these  points  of  aesthetic 
nature  that,  like  most  of  his  brethren,  he  goes  through 
all  his  parochial  duties  with  great  assiduity,  and  conducts 
the  church-service  of  each  Sunday  with  a  propriety  which 
would  be  excellent  even  on  your  side  of  the  Tweed. 
Wlien  you  went  with  me  to  tiie  parish  church,  you  were 
somewhat  shocked  at  seeing  the  country-people  coming 
in  with  their  liats  on,  and  rushing  out  as  though  the 
place   were   on    lire,   the    instant    tin?    last   "Amen"   was 


408  SOME  TALK  ABOUT  SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES. 

Fpoken  ;  and  I  did  not  expect  that  you  would  like  the 
bare  and  bald  i-itual  of  the  Kii-k  as  uiueii  as  your  own 
beautiful  service.  Siill,  in  the  carefully-prepared  prayers 
you  heard,  there  was  nothing  of  that  rambling  rigmarole 
of  extern poraneou.s  extravagance  which  makes  one  long 
for  a  Litui'gy  to  keep  people  to  connnon  sense.  And  as 
for  the  sermon  you  heard  from  IMr.  Sinilh,  I  think  that, 
save  for  its  not  being  read,  and  lor  a  shade  more  warmth 
of  manner  in  the  delivery  of  it,  it  was  very  much  such 
as  your  excellent  rector  gives  you  every  Sunday  morn- 
ing. And  though  I  am  not  much  delighted  witii  some  of 
Lord  Palmerston's  recent  ecclesiastical  a])pointments,  and 
cannot  understand  why  such  men  as  Mr.  jNIelvill  and  Mr. 
Chenevix  Trench  are  not  raised  to  the  episcopal  bench  in 
the  abundance  of  recent  vacancies,  still  I  have  grown  so 
much  of  a  Presbyterian  in  feeling,  that  I  am  pleased  to 
find  a  Scotchman,  brought  up  in  the  Scotch  Kirk,  made 
your  metropolitan  bishop.  Di-.  Tait  has,  I  believe,  two 
brothei-s  who  are  elders  of  the  Kirk  ;  one  of  them.  Sheriff 
Tait,  being  a  prominent  speaker  in  the  General  As- 
sembly. 

The  change  has  come  upon  me  l)y  degrees  ;  and  real- 
ly, till  you  were  lujre  in  September,  I  was  hardly  aware 
how  far,  by  familiarity  with  Scotch  modes  of  tliiiiking  and 
acting,  I  had  grown  into  a  development  wliich  must  seem 
strange  in  an  old  friend's  eyes.  As  you  know,  I  go  little 
to  England  :  my  wife  and  weans  (the  latter  of  whom 
often  loudly  express  their  hope  that  you  will  soon  come 
back  again)  are  a  tie  to  home  ;  and  one  great  pleasure 
of  a  country  life  is,  that  every  day  of  the  year,  winter  as 
well  as  summer,  brings  with  it  something  to  interest  one. 
Horses,  cows.  pig<,  dogs,  jiheasants,  wheat,  potatoes, 
newly-planted     trees     and     evergreens,    are    a    constant 


SOME  TALK   ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES.     409 

source  of  occupation  :  there  is  always  a  host  of  littla 
changes  and  improvements  going  on  about  a  country- 
place,  which  there  is  a  pleasure  in  overseeing.  Yet  one 
need  not  grow  a  mere  clod,  like  some  of  my  thick-headed 
neighbors  whom  you  met,  who  had  never  heard  of  IMr. 
Tiiackeray  or  of  Fraser's  Magazine,  and  who  thought 
that  Mr.  Ruskin  was  a  slang  name  for  the  Emperor  of 
Russia.  My  daily  hours  of  work  in  my  library  make  me 
enjoy  all  the  more  a  scamper  on  horseback,  a  stroll  to 
the  home-farm,  or  a  walk  through  the  young  plantations. 
And  notwithstanding  your  pity  for  me,  cut  otF.  as  you 
thought,  from  the  world  of  intellect,  I  assure  you,  my 
dear  Editor,  when  you  told  me  of  all  your  toils  and 
cares,  pleasant  and  elevating  as  they  may  be,  I  thought 
it  would  be  well  for  you,  mentally  and  physically,  to 
spend  six  months  at  Craig-Houlakim,  where  your  pulse 
would  get  to  beat  more  leisurely,  where  the  flame  of  life 
would  burn  away  less  fast,  an<l,  like  wise  old  Walton, 
you  might  "study  to  be  quiet."  And  I  put  it  to  you,  as 
an  intelligent  being,  if  my  own  personal  appearance  did 
not,  by  its  healthy  animalism,  say  a  great  deal  for  this 
calm  mode  of  life.  I  don't  think  I  am  any  stupider 
ihan  J  used  to  be  when  we  were  companions  long  ago; 
but  am  I  not  twice  as  strong,  twice  as  active  —  ay,  and 
twice  as  rosy,  though  I  never  drink   whiskey-toddy  ? 

There  is  no  doubt  of  it,  my  dear  fellow,  that  Scotland 
and  England  are  very  different  countries,  after  all.  I  ilo 
not  know  what  may  be  the  particular  train  of  riflectit;ii 
which  is  started  in  the  mind  of  people  in  gcneial  by  wit- 
nessing tlie  departure  of  the  Scotch  mail-train  from 
P^uston-square  at  nine  p.m.;  but  for  myscli',  the  thought 
which  always  impresses  me  is,  what  oppa>ite  states  of 
thinjis   that  train  forms  a  link  between.     The  carriage 


410    SOME  TALK.  ABOUT  SCOTCH  PECULl  ARITIKS. 

which  bears  the  little  board  on  its  side,  with  London 
AND  Edinbuugh,  will  ill  the  next  few  hours  run  not 
merely  out  of  one  country  into  another,  witli  another 
climate  and  scenery  ;  but  also  into  nnotiier  race  of  men, 
another  religion,  another  church,  another  law,  another 
way  of  tliiiiking  upon  all  conceivable  subjects.  Scot- 
land and  England,  in  short,  are  quite  different  countries. 
Many  tiling-;  wliich  are  quite  familiar  in  each,  are  un- 
known ill  th(!  olher.  And  though  between  the  educated 
classes  of  tiie  two  countries  tliei'e  is  now  much  similar- 
ity, still  it  will  be  long  before  electric  wires  and  express 
trains  shall  assimilate  Pali-Mall  and  Prince's-street,  St. 
Giles's  and  the  Goosedubs. 

It  bas  always  been  an  interesting  thing  to  me  to  wit- 
ness the  departure  of  the  great  trains  for  the  North. 
My  feeling  is,  that  the  dignity  and  poetry  of  a  railway 
train  are  in  direct  pro|)ortion  to  the  distance  it  has  to 
run.  Who  cares  about  tlie  departure  of  a  Greenwioii 
train,  that  will  reach  its  journey's  end  in  ten  minutes? 
It  is  quite  diifcrciit  witli  one  that,  after  quitting  the 
brightly-lighted  and  Inistling  station,  is  to  go  on  and  on, 
hour  after  hour  through  the  long  dark  night,  score  after 
score  of  miles  tiirough  the  wide  blank  country,  and  be- 
tween the  lights  of  fifty  sleeping  towns.  By  the  side  of 
the  broad  smooth  platform  is  the  long  row  of  low  dark 
carriages,  so  snug-looking  internally  with  their  warm 
lamp-light,  their  thick  blue  cushions,  their  heaps  of 
wraps  of  all  kinds.  There  is  a  crowd  of  passengers  liur 
rying  to  and  fro  ;  a  rapid  whirl  of  barrows  of  luggage  ; 
a  display  of  men  and  women  in  every  variety  of  dress 
wliich  has  the  association  of  warmth.  At  lengtii  we  are 
all  stowed  in  our  places  ;  rugs  are  folded  over  knees, 
travelling  caps  are  endued,  reviews  and  newspapers  are 


so:me  talk  about  scotch  peculiarities.   411 

cut  up  ;  and  the  train  is  off,  gliding  with  a  fluent  motion 
tlirough  the  dark.  For  an  hour  or  two  passengers  read, 
and  even  talk  a  little  ;  then  gradually  drop  off  into  a 
sleep,  which  is  disturbed  at  intervals  through  the  niglit 
by  the  glare  and  thunder  of  some  passing  engine,  fear- 
fully snorting  and  panting,  or  by  the  chilly  rusli  of  raw 
air  as  the  guard  opens  the  door  to  ask  a  siglit  of  tiie  tick- 
ets at  some  large  station  on  the  road.  Thus  we  sweep 
tlirougli  the  rich  lieart  of  England :  along  tin;  \  alh^y  of 
the  Trent  —  through  Staffordshire  —  through  crowded 
Lancashire  ;  and  at  length  waken  to  full  consciousness 
among  the  Cumberland  hills,  where  tlie  passing  train 
sends  the  sheep  scampering,  and  startles  the  hare  from 
her  resting-place.  Then  comes  the  comfortable  thougl 
hurried  breakfast  in  tliat  most  baronial  refreshment-room 
at  Carlisle  ;  a  few  miles  further  on  we  cross  the  little 
river  Sark,  ^ntcr  Dumfries-shire,  and  are  in  Scotland. 
Wild  hills  yet,  which  give  tlie  new-comer  a  dreary  im- 
pression,  and  a  very  unfair  one,  of  the  country  he  ha^3 
entered  ;  ninety  or  a  hundred  miles  are  rajjidly  skimmed 
over  ;  and  at  the  end  of  twelve  or  thirteen  hours  from 
Euston-square,  we  hear  a  howling  of  Embra'  or  Gleska, 
as  the  case  may  be,  and  we  emerge  from  the  carriage  to 
which  we  had  grown  quite  attached,  and  find  ourselves 
in  a  new  world.  No  educated  Englishman  needs  to  be 
told  nowadays  that  Scotchmen  do  not  wear  tartan,  —  that 
the  figures  one  sees  at  the  doors  of  tobac(;o-shops  in  Lon- 
don have  no  prototypes  in  the  North,  —  that  a  kilt  is  seen 
just  as  frequently  in  Regent-street  as  on  tlie  Calton-hill, 
■and  that  those  persons  who  describe  themselves  when  in 
England  as  Tiiic  JNIac  Toddy  or  Till-:  Mxc  Losky, 
know  raiher  better  than  to  make  fools  of  themselves  by 
assuming    such    desijrnations    when    at    home.     Still    we 


412     SO:^IE  TALK   ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIAKITIES. 

Iinve  things  am6ng  us  here  which  you  luiow  nothing 
about  ;  and  I  am  going  to  give  yon  some  idea  of  one  or 
two  of  onr  "  peculiar  institutions."  I  have  before  my 
eyes  the  recent  fate  of  Mr.  Macaulay,  when  he  recorded 
certain  impidatable  truths  in  i-egard  lo  Scotland,  his  "  i-c- 
spected  niitlier."  But  what  I  say  >hail  he  said  in  all 
good-nature  ;  and  I  do  not  believe  that  the  sensible  por- 
tion of  my  adopted  comjjatriots  forms  such  a  genus  irrita- 
hile  as  you  might  fancy  from  reading  about  I  he  doings  of 
the  Society  for  maintaining  Scottish  Rights. 

Do  you  remember  one  morning  when  you  were  iiere, 
the  post-bag  yielding  a  Glasgow  newspaper,  which  hav- 
ing glanced  at  I  pitched  with  indignation  into  the  fire  ? 
The  reason  was,  that  it  contained  a  long  report  of  a  pi'o- 
ceeding  which  no  acquaintance  with  it  will  ever  make  tol- 
erable to  me,  or  indeed  make  anything  but  revolting  and 
disgusting  :  I  mean  what  is  called  a  Congregational  Soi- 
ree in  the  City  Hall  at  Glasgow.  Such  things  are  very 
common  among  the  dissenters  ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  say 
they  are  not  quite  unknown  in  the  churcii.  There  are 
some  congi'egations  con>isting  exclusively  of  the  lower 
orders,  whose  ministers  maintain  a  certain  popularity  by 
dint  of  roaiing  and  ranting,  and  every  kind  of  wretched 
claptrap  which  appeals  to  the  mob.  And  these  men  lind 
it  expedient  to  have  a  soiree  (pronounced  surree,  wiili  a 
strong  accent  on  the  latter  syllable)  annually.  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  the  more  dignified  and  respectable 
among  the  clergy  utterly  abhor  such  things.  I  could  no 
more  fancy  my  excellent  friend.  Dr.  Mnir  of  Kdinburgli, 
spouting  nonsense  on  a  platform  to  excite  the  laughter 
of  maid-servants,  than  I  could  [)ictnre  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  preaching  while  standing  on  liis  liead.  But 
let  me  try  to  give  you  some  idea  of  what  the  thing  is. 


SOME  TAI.K  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES.      41. "3 

I  have  had  occasion  once  or  twice  to  see  the  City  Hall 
at  Glasgow.  Whenever  the  freedom  of  the  city  is  given 
to  any  eminent  man,  the  ceremony  takes  place  there,  the 
Lord  Pro\ost  making  a  speech  on  the  occasion.  It  is  a 
large  ngly  Ituilding,  in  a  street  called  the  Candleriggs, 
which  runs  out  of  tlie  Trongate,  the  maisi  artery  of 
Glasgow  tralHi'.  It  is  very  large,  holding  some  three  or 
four  tliou.-aiid  people.  It  is  simp'y  a  huge  square  room, 
with  a  flat  ceiling.  Galleries  surround  it  on  three  sides: 
on  the  fourth  side  is  a  large  platform,  backed  by  a  fine 
organ.  It  has  a  cheerful  appearance,  being  painted 
throughout  in  white  and  gold.  This  Hall  is  used  for 
all  kinds  of  purjioses  ;  the  Corporation,  very  shabbily  I 
think,  making  a  profit  by  letting  it  out  to  any  one  who 
may  want  it.  There  the  Wizard  of  the  North  was  wont 
for  many  a  day  to  perform  his  tricks  :  there  did  Mr.  Bar- 
num  exliibit  Tom  Thumb  :  there  have  Jenny  Lind  and 
Grisi  sung :  there  does  Jullien  yearly  give  a  course  of 
concerts :  there  has  Kossuth  spoken,  and  there  Mr. 
Macaulay,  Lord  Elgin,  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  Mr.  Dick- 
ens, and  a  greater  man  than  all,  Sir  Archibald  Alison  : 
there  has  Mr.  George  Thompson  howled:  there  has  the 
Anti-State-Church  Association  made  itself  ridiculous  : 
there  next  day  have  the  friends  of  the  Kirk  rallied  by 
thousands;  and  on  the  day  alter,  the  advocates  of  the 
Democratic  and  Social  Republic:  there  have  been  held 
cattle-show  dinners  and  Crimean  banquets ;  and  there 
soirees  in  honor  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  from 
Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  down  to  ^Ir.  Stiggins  (who  became 
a  dissenting  minister  in  Whi-tlfliiiikic  alter  his  historic 
kicking  by  the  senior  Mr.  Weller)  :  and  alter  this  pleas- 
ing variety  of  engagt^ments  during  the  week,  the  Hall  is 
•et  for  divine  service  on   Sunday.     There  hath  the  R(!V 


414      SOME   TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES. 

Dr.  llahoo  wept,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Spurgeon  bellowed 
there  iiuth  a  young  scamp  of  ten  years  old  preaclied  to 
!i  congregation  of  ilioiisaiids ;  and  thence  hath  the  Rev. 
Mr.  McQuack  retired  with  a  collection  of  £3  15*.  '2^d 
for  the  mission  to  send  flannel  waistcoats  and  moral 
pocket-handkerchiefs  to  the  nninslructed   llowowows. 

Tiie  first  announcement  of  the  approaching  festival  is 
an  advertisement  in  the  Glasgow^  newspapers  that  a  Con- 
gregational Soiree  of  St.  Gideon's  Church  will  be  held 
in  the  City  Hall  upon  a  certain  evening:  The  Rev.  Dr. 
Bahoo,  M.  A.,  D.  D.,  LL.D.,  in  the  chair.  Addresses 
will  be  delivered  by  the  Rev.  Melchisedec  Ilowler,  the 
Rev.  Jeremy  Diddler  (Missionary  to  liorrioboolagha),  the 
Rev.  Roaring  Buckie  (of  Yellington-cum-Bellow),  the 
Rev.  Soapy  Sneaky  (domestic  chaplain  to  the  Hon. 
Scapegrace  Blackleg),  and  the  Rev.  Mountybanke  Buf- 
fune.  By  the  kind  permission  of  Col.  Blazes,  the  band 
of  the  gallant  OGOth  will  attend.  Tickets,  including  a 
j)aper  of  sweeties,  a  cooky,  two  figs,  and  five  cups  of  tea, 
price,  eight  pence  each.  N.  B.  —  A  collection  at  the 
door,  to  prevent  confusion. 

The  proceedings  begin  at  six  o'clock  upon  the  ap- 
pointed evening,  by  which  hour  the  peo])le  are  .seated 
at  long  tables  arranged  in  the  Hall,  displaying  a  large 
as.sortment  of  tea-cups  of  many  varied  |)atterns.  Each 
person  on  entering  has  received  a  paper-bag,  containing 
the  promised  cooky  (you  would  call  it  a  penny-bun),  the 
figs,  and  the  sweeties.  The  platform  is  covered  will)  men, 
the  leading  individuals  of  the  congregation,  and  the  speak- 
ers of  the  evening.  T/tat  is  Mr.  Soapy  Sneaky,  with  the 
long  lank  hair,  the  blue  spectacles,  and  the  diabolical 
squint.  That  fat,  round  little  man  is  Dr.  Bahoo,  already 
affected  to  tears  by  the  contemplation  of  so  many  tea- 


SOME  TAv^K  ABOUT  SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES.      415 

Clips,  and  by  the  reflection  that  they  will  all  be  broken 
within  the  next  hundred  years.  That  is  Melcliisedec 
Ilow'ei-,  with  tremendously-developed  jaws  and  a  bull- 
neck,  liut  liardly  any  perceptible  forehead.  And  thai 
is  Mr.  Buckie,  with  the  apoplectic  face,  and  corpulent 
figure.  First,  a  Psalm  is  sung;  then  a  long  prayer  is 
offered.  The  band  of  the  OG'Jth  then  plays  a  polka. 
Next  greasy  men  go  round,  and  pour  tea  of  uninviting 
ap[)i'arance  out  of  large  kettles  inlo  the  numberless  lea- 
cups.  The  men  on  the  platform  partake  of  the  same 
cheering  beverage.  A  great  clatter  of  crockery  is  heard  : 
raany  of  the  gui^sts,  ere  they  have  finisiied  their  fifth 
cup  (they  are  breakfast-cui)s)  become  visibly  distended  : 
most  of  the  children  find  it  expedient  to  stand  up.  Tea 
being  over,  the  military  band  plays  the  "  March  of  the 
Cameron  Men,"  or  "Bonnie  Dundee,"  amid  great  shout- 
ing and  stamping.  The  Rev.  Dr.  Bahoo,  the  minister 
of  the  congregation,  then  gets  up  and  makes  a  speech  in 
the  nature  of  a  sermon,  with  a  few  jokes  thrown  in.  The 
reverend  gentleman  gets  much  excited.  He  frequently 
weeps  during  his  speech,  and  in  a  little  laughs  again.  He 
tells  the  p("Ople  how  hawppee  he  is  to  see  them  awl; 
how  many  additional  seats  have  been  let  in  St.  Gideon's 
Church  dining  the  past  year:  how  many  scores  of 
Sawba  schule  teachers  and  Sawba  scholars  are  connected 
with  the  congregation.  A  Psalm  is  then  sung  by  the 
people  :  a  polka  follows  :  then  there  is  a  pause  to  allow 
the  figs  to  be  eaten.  Then  the  Rev.  Melchisedec  Howler 
addresses  the  meeting.  He  shouts  and  stamps  :  he  bel- 
lows out  his  ungrammatical  fustian  with  perfect  confi- 
dence. Happy  man,  he  is  so  great  a  ibol  that  he  has 
not  the  faintest  suspicion  that  he  is  a  fool  at  all.  Streams 
of  perspiration  fiow  down  his  face.     In  leaving  the  Hall, 


416      SO:\IE   TALK  ABOUT  SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES. 

jou  will  hear  the  general  remark  among  the  enlightened 
audience,  "  Wasna'  yon  gran'  ?  "  "  Oh,  but  lie  swat  eX' 
traordinar."  Tlie  meeting  goes  on  for  three  or  four 
hours,  with  the  same  strange  juinl)le  of  prayers  and 
polkas,  religion  and  buffoonery,  tears  of  penitence  and 
roars  of  laughter.  At  length,  about  ten  or  eleven  at 
night,  after  three  cheers  for  tlie  chairman,  the  benedic- 
tion is  pronounced,  and  the  festival  i-:  ended. 

Well,  my  dear  Editor,  is  not  that  a  peculiar  institution, 
with  a  vengeance?  I  assure  you  I  am  not  exaggerating 
or  caricaturing,  in  my  description  of  the  hateful  exhibi- 
tion. Anything  more  irreverent  and  revolting  than  what 
I  have  myself  witnessed  (for  I  went  out  of  cuiiosity  to 
two  or  three  such  scenes)  cannot  be.  I  have  seen  cler- 
gymen say  and  do  things  at  them  which  were  just  as  de- 
grading as  if  they  had  shaved  their  heads,  painted  their 
faces  with  ochre,  put  on  a  spangled  dress,  and  tumbled 
head  over  heels.  I  have  stated  that  the  more  staid  and 
reputable  clergy  utterly  eschew  such  meetings :  most  of 
the  ministers  who  appear  at  them  are  men  prepared  to 
have  recourse  to  the  very  lowest  and  most  contemptilde 
means  in  order  to  gain  a  wretched  popularity  with  the 
least  intelligent  of  the  community.  Don't  you  feel  that 
Dr.  Bahoo  and  Mr.  Howler  would  preach  standing  on 
their  heads,  if  that  would  draw  a  crowd  to  the  scene  of 
their  buffooneries  ?  Don't  you  feel  that  they  would  sev- 
erally sing  Hot  codlins  from  the  pulpit,  rather  than  see 
the  boxes  disserted  and  the  pit  empty  ?  They  an;  simply 
tenth-iate  melodramatic  actors;  and  I  will  s[)eak  of  them 
as  such. 

Now  for  another  Scotch  peculiarity. 

1  remember  well  your  look  of  amazement  when,  one 


SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES.      417 

day  as  we  drove  past  a  whitewashed  barn  a  few  miles  oiF, 
I  said  to  you,  "  That  is  the  parish  church  of  Timmer- 
,;tane-parva."  You  thought  at  first  that  I  wished  to  prac- 
tise on  your  creihility,  in  return  for  certain  wiclced  mys- 
tifications wiiich  you  practised  ui)on  me  in  our  college 
days.  But  I  spoke  in  sober  sadness.  We  have  abun- 
dance of  churclies  in  Scotland  which  no  mortal  would  ever 
guess  were  churches  ;  buildings  without  one  trace  of 
Christian  character ;  whitewashed  barns  externally,  with 
a  btlfry  at  one  end  ;  and  internally,  just  four  walls  and  a 
flat  roof,  with  a  higgledy-piggledy  of  rickety  pews,  and 
a  rude  box  at  one  end  to  serve  for  a  pulpit.  Now  I  have 
no  doubt  that  you  thought  all  this  was  the  remaining 
leaven  of  the  sour  Puritan  spiiit :  and  that  you  supposed 
that  the  mass  of  the  Scotch  people  really  tiiink  that  God 
is  most  likely  to  be  worshipped  in  sincerity  between  walls 
green  with  damp  and  streaming  with  moisture,  and  under 
a  flat  ceiling  whence  large  pieces  of  plaster  are  wont  to 
detach  themselves  during  divine  service.  You  were 
quite  mistaken  if  you  took  up  any  such  impression. 
There  are  one  or  two  bigoted  sects  which  have  inherited 
the  spirit  of  the  Covenanters,  among  which  a  good  deal 
of  stupid  prejudice  still  lingers ;  and  the  people  of  these 
sects  would  very  probably  prefer  Timmerstane  Kirk  to 
York  Minster.  But  I  am  sure  the  well-filled  [)ews  you 
saw  in  our  parish  church  testify  that  Scoicli  people  will 
come  very  willingly  to  a  decent  church  when  they  can 
fmd  one  ;  and  if  you  knew  what  frantic  elTorts  the  dis- 
senting congregations  in  large  towns  make  to  imitate  our 
cathedrals  in  cheap  lath-and-plaster  Gothic,  you  would 
be  convinced  that  it  is  no  preference  for  shabbiness  and 
dirt  on  the  part  of  the  people  that  keeps  numbers  of 
Scotch  kirks  the  disreputable  places  they  are.  jN'o,  my 
27 


418      SOME  TALK   ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES. 

dear  Editor;  I  wisli  to  reveal  to  you,  and  throtinjh  you  to 
your  oouuiless  readers,  iiicludina;  so  great  a  poi'tion  of  llie 
intelligence  and  refinement  of  England,  what  is  the  real 
blight  of  Scotcli  church  architecture.  It  is,  in  brief,  the 
abominable,  mean,  dirty,  and  contemptible  shabbiness  and 
parsimony  of  a  great  many  of  the  heritors  of  Scotland. 
But  what  are  the  heritors,  you  will  say,  and  what  have 
they  *o  do  with  the  churches?  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
it. 

The  hei-itors  of  a  parish  are  the  pro[)rietors  of  land 
within  it.  They  are  bound  l)y  law  to  build  and  main- 
tain the  church  and  parsonage.  They  likewise  pay  the 
stipend  of  the  clergyman.  Now,  of  course,  when  they 
or  their  fathers  bought  their  estates,  they  got  them  for  so 
much  less  in  consideration  of  these  circumstances.  The 
primary  charge  upon  all  the  land  of  Scotland  is  the 
Church  Establishment;  and  in  rendering  its  due  to  the 
church,  the  heritors  are  simply  fulfilling  the  condition  on 
wiiich  tlicy  hold  their  property,  —  doing  what  it  would 
be  dishonest  not  to  do ;  and  they  are,  manifestly,  no  more 
entitled  to  take  credit  for  maintaining  the  church  an<l 
clergyman,  than  the  farmer  is  entitled  to  tlap  his  wings 
and  cry  aloud,  "  I  am  a  virtuous  man  ;  I  am  a  hero  in 
morality;  I  actually  pay  my  landlord  his  rent!"  Now 
many  heritors  forget  all  this:  they  fancy  that  the  church 
is  a  burden  upon  them  ;  and  they  endeavor  by  every 
shabby  dodge  to  render  that  burden  as  light  as  possible. 
You  see  I  don't  spare  the  class  to  wiiich  I  myself  belong: 
as  a  general  rule,  in  all  church  matters,  we  are  about  as 
mean  a  set  as  you  can  find  in  Europe.  Very  many  of 
us  are  dipped  in  debt,  and  are  struggling  to  maintain  an 
appearance  quite  beyond  our  means.  I  have  in  my 
mind's  eye  at  this  moment  at  least  a  score  of  men  who 


SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES     419 

are  the  very  ideal  of  Mr.  Tliackeray'ri  Country  Snob. 
"We  really  have  not  a  sixpence  to  spare;  and  we  must 
pave  all  we  can  off  the  Kirk.  And  the  rascally  barns 
which  in  so  many  places  do  duty  as  parish  churches,  tes- 
tify to  our  shabbiness  and  that  of  our  fathers.  No  doubt 
ihere  are  many  noble  exceptions  to  what  I  have  been 
saying.  Here  and  there  one  finds  a  really  beautiful  and 
ecclesiastical  church,  testifying  to  the  liberality  of  Mr. 
Stirling  of  Keir,  Mr.  Tyndall  Bruce  of  Falkland,  or 
Colonel  Cathcart  of  Craigengillan.  And  the  Duke  of 
Buccleugh,  a  nobleman  in  the  best  sense  of  the  phrase, 
is  a  splendid  instance  of  liberality  in  all  church  matters. 
A  writer  in  The  Times  told  us  lately  that  we  country 
gentlemen  of  Scotland  were  such  a  race  of  snobs,  tliat 
if  the  duke  became  a  Mormon,  we  should  all  believe  in 
Joe  Smith  too.  I  have  no  doubt  a  great  many  of  us 
would.  But  you  won't  find  us  imitating  that  eminent 
])ersonage  when  the  act  to  be  imitated  consists  in  i)utting 
our  hand  in  our  pocket.  No :  we  are  independent  men, 
who  think  for  ourselves  when  it  comes  to  that!  And  an 
especial  evil  is,  that  at  a  meeting  of  the  lieritors  of  a 
parish,  each  person  has  an  equal  voice.  A  man  witli 
ten  thousand  a  year  lias  one  vote  only,  and  so  has  the 
proprietor  of  a  pigsty.  Neighboring  i)r()prietors  don't 
like  to  come  to  loggerheads,  and  divisions  are  avoided  at 
such  meetings.  And  so,  as  the  weakest  link  in  a  diain 
is  the  limit  of  its  strength,  the  shabliiest  heritor  at  a 
meeting  is  generally  the  limit  of  its  liberality. 

I  have  been  reading  with  great  interest  and  pleasure 
Mr.  Beckett  Denison's  Lectures  on  CJturcJi-building.  If 
that  accomplished  gentleman  would  pay  me  a  visit,  I 
think  I  could  astonish  him.  1  could  show  him  men.  pass* 
ably  intelligent  on   other  topics,  who  in   the   matter  of 


420    SOME  TALK   ABOUT   SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES. 

eluirc'h-building  utterly  gain.-ay  and  deny  tlio>e  elerr.en* 
tary  principles  wliicli  appear  to  Mr.  Deiii.-on  and  myself 
as  indispniable  as  any  axiom  in  morals.  I  will  back  a 
meeting  of  Scotch  heritors  against  any  collection  of  men 
anywhere  in  the  world,  for  dense  ignorance,  dogged  ob- 
stinacy, and  comfortable  self-conceit.  I  should  imagine 
the  ieelings  of  a  man  driving  a  large  flock  of  refractory 
pigs  to  market,  must  be  much  what  mine  were  when  I 
lirst  set  to  work  to  persuade  my  brother  heritors  of  this 
parish  to  build  the  handsome  church  you  saw  here.  I 
don't  bilieve  (hat  Lord  Clarendon  needed  more  diplo- 
matic skill  to  manage  matters  at  the  Paris  Congress, 
than  was  requisite  io  talk  over  some  of  the  miserable 
little    scru*)s   of  small    proprietors    into    conimon    sense. 

The  upshot  was,  that  Sir and  I  agreed  to  bear 

the  entire  expense,  provided  the  matter  were  left  to  our 
own  m?nagement.  About  two  thirds  of  the  parish  belong 
to  us ;  the  remainder  being  parcelled  out  among  some 
five-and-fbrty  heritors.  We  paid  the  share  of  these  men 
in  addition  to  our  own  ;  and  though  they  were  not  in- 
volved in  the  work  to  the  extent  of  a  sixpence,  they  still 
cast  every  vexatious  annoyance  in  our  way. 

Let  me  try  to  give  you  an  idea  of  a  meeting  of  heri- 
tors. It  is  held  in  the  church.  About  ten  minutes  be- 
fore the  ap[)oiTted  hour,  we  see  three  or  four  blue-nosed 
pragmatical  booking  old  fellows  approaching,  arrayed  in 
long  browp  great-coats  of  remote  antiquity,  each  man 
wearing  a  shocking  bad  hat.  Tiiese  are  some  of  the 
sm?ller  b»iritors,  each  possessor  of  a  few  bare  acres  of 
moor-laod  in  some  wild  part  of  the  parish.  They  are 
c>?rtainlv  Dissenters,  probably  Cainc^ronians  ;  and  quite 
rrady  .'(t  a  word  to  smite  tiie  jjrophcts  of  Baal,  as  tliey 
woulJ    call   your    amiable    bishop  or  your   good    rector. 


SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES.    421 

They  look  around  in  a  liostile  and  perverse  manner,  and 
BiiufF  tlie  air  like  wild  asses'  colts.  A  little  after  comes  a 
man  with  a  red  pimply  face,  a  hoarse  voice,  and  a  bul- 
lying manner.  He  is  the  factor  of  some  proprietor  who 
is  ashamed  to  do  dirty  work  himself,  but  does  not  ob- 
ject to  having  it  done  for  him.  Then  comes  a  little 
■withered  anatomy  of  a  man,  a  retired  Manchester  trades- 
man, who  has  bought  a  few  fields,  jilanted  them  with 
hoaks  and  hashes,  and  built  there  an  Ouse  from  his  own 
design,  a  great  work  of  hai-t.  Half-a-dozen  more  blue- 
nosed  small  heritors,  two  or  three  more  factors,  and  one 
or  two  gentlemen,  complete  the  meeting.  Suppose  they 
are  examining  the  drawings  of  the  new  kirk.  Oh,  rare 
are  their  critical  i-emarks. 

"Aw  doant  see  ony  need  for  a  speere,"  says  one  low 
fellow.  "  Whawt  's  that  croass  doin'  aboove  the  gabble  ?  " 
says  another;  "we're  no  gangin'  to  hawve  a  rawg  o' 
papistry  in  this  ])awrish."  ''  If  that's  the  way  to  build  a 
church,"  says  a  jjig-hcaded  blockhead  who  never  saw  a 
decent  church  in  his  life,  "  I  know  nothing  aboot  church- 
building."  Sober  truth  the  creature  utters  ;  but  he  fan- 
cies he  is  talking  sarcastically.  Something  is  said  of  an 
open  roof.  "  Wha  ever  saw  a  roof  like  thawt?"  says 
on(!  of  the  blue-nosed  men  ;  "  thawt's  jist  like  maw  barrrn." 
A  Cameronian  elder  says,  in  a  discordant  whine,  "  Goad 
is  to  be  wurshupped  in  spurrit  and  in  trewth  :  whawt 
house  will  ye  big  unto  him?  Ilabakkuk  thirteenth  and 
liflh."  "  Stained  glass,"  says  a  pert  little  shopkee[)er 
from  AVhislleI)inkie,  "  is  essentially  Topi-h  and  Anti- 
christ." Finally  a  burst  of  coarse  laughter  follows  the 
witticism,  from  an  individual  with  a  strong  smell  of  whis- 
key,—  "If  Mr.  Macdoanald  wants  the  kirk  sae  fine, 
let  him  pye  for  it  himself.     Aw   heer  he  was  bred  at 


422    SOME  TALK  ABOUT  SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES. 

Ooxfurd  ;  mn^ybe  lie,  wants  us  a' to  tiini  prelatists.  ITo 
had  better  gang  awa'  bawk  to  Inglaii'  \vi'  his  pa[)ish 
notions."  At  this  juncture  tlie  liouorable  proprietor's 
utterance  becomes  indistinct,  and  in  a  little  a  loud  snor- 
ing proclaims  that  he  is  asleep.  While  the  discussion  is 
going  on,  some  of  the  heritors  are  spitting  emulously  at 
a  pew  door  about  a  dozen  feet  off.  They  generally  hit 
il,  with  a  dexterity  resulting  from  long  practice. 

What  wonder  if  educated  men  and  gentlemen  avoid 
such  meetings  ?  And  thus,  unhappily,  the  management 
of  matters  falls  into  the  hands  of  some  blowsy  village 
demagogue,  whose  imi)ertinence  has  driven  the  squire 
or  baronet  of  the  [)arish  away  ;  or  of  two  or  three  of  the 
withered  old  Camcronians  with  the  long  brown  great- 
coats. 

The  Scotch  are  not  a  demonstrative  race.  I  do  not 
believe  that  among  our  laboring  class  here  in  the  coun- 
try, there  is  any  want  of  real  heart  and  feeling;  but 
tiiere  is  a  great  awkwardness  and  stiffness  in  the  expres- 
sion of  it.  Peo[)le  here  do  not  give  utterance  to  their 
emotion  like  your  volatile  Frenchman  :  they  have  not 
words  to  say  what  lh(^y  led  ;  and  they  would  be  asliamed 
{hlate,  in  tlieir  own  plirase)  to  use  thesi;  words  if  they 
had  them.  I  have  had  a  touching  instance  of  this  within 
the  last  few  days.  Do  you  remember  our  taking  a  walk 
together  one  beautiful  afternoon  to  the  cottage  of  one  of 
my  people,  a  poor  fellow  who  was  dying  of  consumption  ? 
You  sat  u|)On  a  stile,  I  recollect,  and  read  a  proof,  while 
1  went  in  and  sat  with  him  for  a  lew  minutes.  It  seemed 
to  cheer  him  a  little  to  have  a  visit  from  the  laird,  and  I 
often  went  to  S(?e  him.  After  you  left  us  he  sank  gradu- 
ally,—  it  was  just  the  old  story  of  that  hopeless  malady: 


SOME  TALK   ABOUT   SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES.    423 

—  till  at  last,  after  a  few  days  in  bed,  he  died.  I  hate 
all  cant  and  false  pretence  ;  but  there  was  earnest  reality 
in  the  simple  faith  which  made  my  humble  friend's  last 
hours  so  calm  and  hopeful.  When  he  felt  himself  dying 
he  sent  for  me,  and  I  went  and  stayed  beside  him  for 
several  hours.  The  clergyman's  house  was  some  miles 
off;  and  apart  from  piivate  regard,  it  was  a  part  of  my 
duty  as  an  elder  of  the  kirk  to  go  and  pray  as  well  as  1 
could  with  the  poor  fellow.  He  was  only  thirty-two,  but 
he  had  been  married  eight  or  nine  years,  and  he  had  four 
little  children.  After  lying  silent  for  a  while,  he  said  he 
would  like  to  see  them  again  ;  and  his  wife  brought  them 
to  his  bedside.  I  know  well  that  no  dying  father  ever 
felt  a  more  hearty  affection  for  the  little  things  he  was 
leaving  behind,  or  a  more  sincere  desire  for  their  welfare 
after  he  had  left  them.  He  was  not  so  weak  but  that  he 
could  speak  quite  distinctly  ;  and  I  thought  that  he  would 
try  and  say  something  to  them  in  the  way  of  a  parting 
advice,  were  it  only  to  bid  them  be  good  children,  and  bfl 
kind  and  obedient  to  their  mother.  Yet  all  Ik;  did  was 
just  to  shake  each  of  the  three  elder  children  by  the  hand, 
and  to  say  Gade-day.  As  for  the  youngest,  a  wee  thing 
of  two  years  old,  he  said  to  it,  "  Will  you  gie  me  a  bit 
kiss?"  and  the  mother  lifted  up  the  wondering  child  to 
do  so.  "  Say  Ta-ta  to  your  feyther,"  she  said.  "Ta-tJi," 
said  the  poor  little  boy,  in  a  loud,  cheerful  voice,  and  then 
ran  out  of  the  cottage  to  |)lay  with  some  companions. 

The  story,  I  feel,  is  nothing  to  tell ;  but  the  little  scene 
affected  me  much.  I  believe  1  have  told  you  the  exact 
words  that  were  said  ;  and  then  the  dying  man  turned 
nway  his  face  and  closed  his  eyes,  and  I  saw  many  tears 
cuiHiing  down  bis  thin  cheeks.  I  knew  it  was  the  very 
abundance  of  that  poor  man's  heart  that  choked  his  utter 


424    SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES. 

ance,  ami  bi-ou^Iit  down  liis  lii.>t  farewell  to  a  coiniTion 
place  greeting  like  that  with  which  he  miglit  liave  parted 
from  a  neighbor  for  a  few  hours.  Gade-day  was  his 
farewell  for  ever  !  He  felt  tliat  he  had  so  very  much  to 
Bay,  that  he  did  not  know  where  to  begin  it ;  and  so  his 
weary  heart  shrank  from  the  task,  and  he  said  almost 
nothing.  I  thought  how  your  friend  Mr.  Tennyson  could 
have  interpreted  that  Gude-d(u/,  How  much  of  unutter- 
able aifection  —  how  much  of  good  advice  and  fatheily 
warning  —  how  much  of  prayer  for  them  to  the  great 
Father  of  the  orphans  —  was  implied  in  poor  David's 
Glide-day  ! 

I  read  a  paragraph  in  IVie  Times,  a  few  weeks  since, 
in  which  it  was  stated  that  the  late  Bishop  of  London 
had  informed  a  certain  congregation,  which  had  the  choice 
of  its  clergyman,  that  lie  would  not  upon  any  account  per- 
mit a  succession  of  candidates  for  the  living  to  preacli  in 
the  parisli  cluirch.  I  think  tiie  IJishop  was  riglit.  There 
is  something  most  degrading  to  tlie  clerical  character,  and 
inconsistent  witli  the  nature  of  preaching,  in  the  practice 
of  persons  "  holding  forth  "  to  a  congregation  to  let  the 
people  see  how  well  they  can  do  it,  the  congregation 
meanwhile  sitting  in  a  critical  and  judicial  capacity.  And 
I  lament  to  tell  you  that  what  is  a  very  rare  and  excep- 
tional thing  in  England,  is  a  very  common  thing  in  Scot- 
land —  the  practice  of  hearing  candidates,  as  it  is  termed. 
Yon  are  aware  that,  at  different  periods,  a  great  row  has 
been  made  in  this  country  about  the  existence  of  church 
patronage;  the  people  always  agitating  to  get  the  selec- 
tion of  their  ministers  put  in  their  own  hands.  In  one 
shape  or  another,  this  agitation  has  been  the  source  of  all 
the  secessions   from   the   Scotch    Kirk.     Ever  since  the 


SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES.    425 

great  pecession  in  1843,  mo?t  patrons  have  been  anxious 
to  make  j)0|)ular  appointments,  for  fear  of  driving  the 
people  away  fi-om  church  to  some  of  the  multitudinous 
neighboring  conventicles  ;  and  instead  of  directly  present- 
ing a  clergyman  to  a  vacant  benefice,  they  have  in  some 
way  consulted  the  wishes  of  the  parishioners.  In  the 
case  of  the  parish  in  which  I  reside,  and  of  which  I  pos- 
sess the  patronage,  I  did  not  take  this  course.  I  took 
every  pains  to  find  a  clergyman  who  should  be  a  good 
preacher,  a  scholar,  and  a  gentleman  ;  and  then  1  pre- 
sented him  without  consulting  the  people  in  any  way.  I 
knew  thorougldy  that,  had  I  given  them  their  choice,  I 
should  simply  have  been  devolving  my  privilege  of  ap- 
pointing a  minister  upon  Smout  the  baker.  Swipes  the 
publican,  and  Muttonhead  the  butcher.  Tliey  would,  to 
a  certainty,  have  directed  the  judgment  of  the  humbler 
parishioners  ;  and  I  conceived  myself  to  be  a  more  com- 
petent judge  of  clerical  qualifications  than  these  gentle- 
men. And  though  the  peoj)le  grumbled  a  little  at  first, 
tiieir  good  sense  and  Mi".  Smith's  faithfulness  triumphed 
in  the  long  run,  and  he  is  now  extremely  [lopular  with  all 
classes.  I  did  not  choose  to  allow  Smout,  Swi|)es,  and 
IMultonhcad  to  give  me  for  a  parish  clergyman  some  bel- 
lowing boor,  whom  I  should  have  been  ashamed  to  ask  to 
meet  my  friends  at  uiy  table. 

When  a  patron  is  more  desirous  of  immediate  popu- 
larity than  I  was,  he  follows  one  of  two  courses  :  he  ap- 
points three  or  four  individuals,  each  of  whom  he  thinks 
suitable  ibr  the  cure,  and  allows  the  people  to  select  one 
of  these  ;  or  he  says  to  the  parisliioners,  "  You  may  nom- 
inate three  clergymen,  and  I  shall  take  my.  choice  of 
these."  The  former  course,  which  is  called  "  giving  a 
feet,"  is  the  more  usual,  I   believe.     In  either  case,  a 


420      SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES. 

preaching-match  follows,  and  the  people  select  by  com- 
parative trial.  In  the  case  of  some  town  chiirciies,  where 
the  congregations  liave  the  entire  matter  in  their  own 
hands,  witii  no  patron  to  keep  them  within  reasonaljie 
limits,  forty  or  fifty  candidates  have  sometimes  been 
heard.  Then,  by  a  process  of  elimination,  that  number 
is  reduced  to  two  or  three  ;  these  two  or  three  are  asked 
to  preach  a  second  time  ;  and,  finally,  the  election  is  com- 
pleted, amid  all  the  degrading  circumstances  which  attend 
mo-t  contested  elections.  Don't  crow  over  us,  my  dear 
Oliver,  for  I  see  that  you  have  lately  had  in  London  a 
similar  discreditable  course  of  procedure. 

Each  of  the  competing  candidates  of  course  does  his 
best  to  make  a  favorable  impression.  With  congrega- 
tions of  the  lower  orders  the  victory  lies  with  him  who 
possesses  the  strongest  lungs  and  the  emptiest  head.  It 
is  a  great  stroke  in  preaching  as  a  candidate  to  repeat 
the  sermon  entirely  from  memory  ;  a  successful  claptrap 
is  to  shut  the  Bible  with  a  bang  immediately  after  giving 
out  the  text.  It  very  generally  happens  that  the  upshot 
is  the  division  of  the  parishioners  into  two  violently 
opposed  parties ;  the  educated  and  respectable  people 
declaring  for  some  preacher  of  cultivated  mind  and  gen- 
tleman-like manner,  and  the  lower  classes  for  scmie  huge, 
raw-boninl,  yelling,  and  perspiring  animal,  with  intense 
vulgarity  in  his  every  tone  and  gesture,  whom  they  re- 
gard as  one  of  themselves.  After  some  weeks  of  excite- 
ment and  diplomacy,  something  like  unanimity  is  gen- 
erally arrived  at;  the  patron  generally  holding  it  in 
terrorem  over  the  people,  that  if  they  do  not  agree  with- 
in a  given  time,  he  will  a{)i)oint  a  minister  without  con- 
sulting them.  The  liearing-candidate  system  has  a  most 
degrading  effect  upon  those   preachers  who  seek  to  get 


SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES.    427 

preferment  by  it.  It  tempts  directly  to  every  coar>e  ex- 
pedient for  pulpit  effect,  and  every  8neaky  means  to  gain 
the  private  good-will  of  the  rabble.  Still  the  pystem 
works  in  piactice  a  shade  better  than  might  be  antici- 
pated a  priori  ;  and  though  sometimes  permanent  splits 
result,  the  minority  going  off  to  the  Dissenting  meeting- 
house, yet  this  is  far  from  being  the  general  rule.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  no  clergyman  of  any  standing 
would  "  preach  as  a  candidate  "  for  any  living.  Candi- 
date preachers  are  for  the  most  part  drawn  from  the 
class  of  newly-tledged  licentiates  ;  and  from  that  species 
of  much-perspiring,  loud-howling,  flabby-fared,  and  big- 
jawed  preacliers,  who  formed  the  dunces  of  the  philoso- 
phy-classes at  college,  and  who  now  constitute  the  parlia- 
mentary train  of  the  Kirk. 

I  have  been  so  little  in  England  of  late  years,  that  T 
do  not  know  whether  the  institution  which  I  am  about  to 
describe  is  a  Scotch  peculiarity,  or  whether  it  exists  on 
your  side  of  the  border:  I  mean  what  may  be  called  the 
testimonial  nuisrnice.  There  is  hardly  anybody  left  in 
this  country  wiio  has  not  had  a  snuff-box,  watch  and 
chain,  purse  of  sovereigns,  tea-kettle,  claret-jug,  book- 
case, gig-whip,  saddle  and  bridle,  pony,  horse,  cow,  {)ig, 
dog-cart,  set  of  harness,  timepiece,  Matthew  Henry's 
Commentary  on  the  Scriptures,  load  of  meal,  cart  of  [)0- 
tatoes,  pig's  face,  German-silver  pencil-case,  everlasting 
gold  pen,  pulpit-gown  and  cassock,  case  of  mathematical 
instruments,  tea-tray,  set  of  teacups,  dozen  of  teaspoons, 
dozen  of  shirts,  dozen  of  pocket  handkerciiiefs,  or  dozen 
of  flannel  waistcoats,  presented  to  him  by  a  circle  of 
friends  and  admirers,  and  th<;  presentation  chronicled  at 
great  length  in  the  local  newspaper.      Country  gentlemen, 


428    so:\rE  talk  about  scotch  pecultarittes 

clergymen,  railwny  guards  drivers  of  stage-coaches, 
gamekeejiers,  shepherds,  local  poetasters,  farmers,  news- 
paper  reporters,  keepers  of  pul)lic-iioiises,  schoolmasters, 
turnpike-gatekeepers,  railway  signal-men,  stokers  of 
coasting  steamers,  are  among  the  people  most  frequently 
honored  in  this  way.  "Wlien  a  testimonial  is  presented 
to  a  man  in  tlie  humbler  walks  of  life,  it  is  usually  fol- 
lowed by  a  sup])er,  concerning  which  the  Whistlebinhie 
Gazette  never  fails  to  record  that  the  arrangements  re- 
flected the  utmost  credit  on  mine  host  of  the  Blue  Boar  ; 
tlie  evening  was  spent  most  iiarmoiiiously,  Mr.  Ronald 
McCracken  favoring  tiie  company  with  his  favorite  song, 
'•Jenny  dang  the  weaver;"  and  at  a  late  hour  all  parties 
went  home,  "  happy  to  meet,  sorry  to  part,  and  happy  to 
meet  again."  Whenever  a  new  minister  comes  to  any 
parish,  on  the  day  of  his  induction  he  is  presented  with 
a  superb  pulpit  gown  (made  by  Messrs.  Roderick,  Doo, 
and  Co.,  our  enterprising  fellow-townsmen),  and  a  pulpit 
Bible  and  psalm-book  (purchased  at  the  establishment  of 
Mr.  McLanirocli,  bookseller,  91,  High-street),  On  going 
away,  he  receives  a  timepiece  or  silver  salver,  (furnished, 
■we  understand,  by  INIessrs.  AVaxy  and  Jollikin,  Clirono- 
meter-makers,  Saltergate)  ;  and  if  a  poor  man,  perhaps 
a  purse  of  sovereigns  (the  purse  made  by  the  fair  lin- 
gers of  Miss  Jemima  McCorkle,  daughter  of  the  much 
esteemed  surgeon  of  that  name).  The  handsome  gift 
(we  invariably  learn)  was  presented  in  a  ^vw  brief  but 
pilhy  remarks  by  Mr.  James  McWilliam,  farmer  in 
Cleugh-Lochacher ;  and  the  reverend  gentleman,  who 
apijcared  much  overcome  by  his  feelings,  made  an  affect- 
ing and  suitable  reply.  Occasionally  we  find  it  recorded 
that  the  tet.antry  on  the  estate  of  Netherwoodie  and 
Clanjamfry  proceeded,  to  the  Mansion   House,  and  pre- 


SOME  TALK   ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES.      429 

sented  Skipness  Alexander  Skipness,  Esq.,  their  esteemed 
landlord,  witli  his  portrait,  drawn  in  the  first  style  of  art 
by  Cosmo  Saunders,  Esq.,  R.  S.  A.  They  likewise  pre- 
sented an  elegant  cairngorm  brooch  to  Mrs.  Skipnes-; ;  a 
whip  to  Master  Sholto  Skipness  Skipness  ;  and  a  hum- 
ming top  to  Master  Reginald  Comyne  Skipness,  the  lat- 
ter gentleman  agf^l  one  year  and  eight  months.  Mr.« 
Ski[)ness,  much  affected  (recipients  of  testimonials  in 
lliis  country  are  always  much  affected),  made  a  suitable 
reply.  He  felt  his  merits  were  greatly  over-estimated. 
If  indeed  it  were  true  that  he  had  been  the  first  to  in- 
troduce into  the  county  an  improved  breed  of  pigs,  he 
had  his  reward  in  the  whisperings  of  an  approving  con- 
science. Turnips  had  for  years  occupied  much  of  his 
attention  ;  nor  had  cheese  passed  without  many  serious 
thoughts.  Onions  and  carrots,  he  might  say,  had  rarely 
been  absent  from  his  mind.  Still,  much  remained  to  be 
done.  There  was  no  limit  to  the  fat  which  might  be 
carried  by  the  Clatijamfry  breed  of  cattle  ;  and  whatever 
might  be  the  feeling  of  others,  he,  for  one,  would  always 
■  connect  the  gimmers  and  hogs  of  this  district  with  the 
future  prosperity  of  the  country.  The  tenantry  were 
then  entertained  at  the  hospitable  board  of  Netherwoodie, 
and  left  at  a  late  hour,  having  spent  an  evening  which 
will  long  be  cherished  as  a  green  spot  in  memoi-y's  waste. 
Do  you  remember  one  morning  glancing  over  the 
Wliistlebinhie  Guardian,  and  reckoning  up  thirty-eight 
testimonials  which  had  been  presented  in  tlie  preceding 
Week  to  different  individuals  in  the  county  ?  I  doubt 
not  that,  in  your  simplicity,  you  fancied  that  this  district 
contained  an  immense  number  of  deserving  characters, 
surrounded  by  a  most  generous  public.  Quite  a  mistake. 
Most  of  the  recipients  deserved  nothing  particular :  most 


430      SOME  TALK   A130UT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES. 

of  the  subscribers  were  lujrged  into  givirif^  sorely  against 
their  will.  Let  me  explain  to  you  the  philo-ophy  of  the 
matter.  A.  let  us  say,  wants  a  testimonial  for  himself 
It  would  not  do,  however,  to  endeavor  directly  to  get  one 
up.  A  therefore  goes  to  B,  and  proposes  to  get  up  a 
testimonial  to  C.  Now  C  never  did  anything  reraark- 
«l)le  in  all  his  life  ;  and  B  does  not  want  to  give  him 
anythir  g.  But  it  would  be  a  most  invidious  thing  to  re- 
fuse to  subscribe :  and  so,  for  fear  of  giving  offence,  B, 
D,  E,  F,  G,  and  II,  severally  put  down  their  shilling  or 
their  pound,  as  the  case  may  be  :  the  present  is  given  ; 
the  supper  or  dinner  comes  off;  and  the  Gazette  and 
Guardian  report  the  proceedings.  In  a  few  months  C, 
who  has  been  made  aware  who  it  was  that  set  his  own 
testimonial  on  foot,  feels  himself  called  upon  to  get  up 
one  to  A.  Then  B  g(;ts  up  one  to  D  ;  D  reciprocates  ; 
and  so  on  all  round.  Thus,  you  see,  the  balance  of 
property  in  the  distiict  is  not  disturbed  ;  for  each  man 
gets  as  much  as  he  gives.  Neither  are  people's  relative 
positions  and  estimations  altered  ;  for  no  man  is  distin- 
guished above  his  neighbor.  Tiie  secret  vanity  of  each 
imlividual  is  gratified:  a  kindly  spirit  is  maintained  in 
the  neighborhood ;  and  in  the  long  run  the  truth  is  not 
prejudiced,  for  these  testimonials  come  to  be  valued  at 
pretty  nearly  what  they  are  worth. 

The  mention  of  testimonials  reminds  me  of  another 
Scotch  peculiarity,  about  which  I  may  tell  you  some- 
thing. All  sorts  of  ])eople  in  this  country  are  fond  of 
making  what  they  call  a  collection  of  testimonials  or 
certificates^  setting  forth  their  qualifications  and  merits. 
They  apply  to  any  one  who  may  be  in  a  prominent  posi- 
tion, whether  he  knows  much  of  them  or  not ;  and  re- 
ceive a  sheet  of  note-paper  inscribed  with  the  most  out- 


SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES.      431 

rageous  and  exaggerated  compliments.  Each  person 
wlio  in  asked  to  give  a  certificate  considers  what  good 
qualities  the  man  ought  to  have  in  order  to  be  fit  for  the 
place  he  is  aiming  at,  or  what  good  qualities  the  man 
would  like  to  be  thought  to  possess  ;  and  incontinently 
sets  iiis  signature  to  a  declaration  that  the  man  does  pos« 
sess  the  very  highest  degree  of  all  these  good  qualities. 
A  really  profligate  disregard  of  truth  prevails  in  Scot- 
land as  to  this  matter.  One  constantly  finds  men,  even 
of  established  reputation,  asserting  in  written  testimonials 
what,  if  you  ask  them  their  real  opinion  in  private,  they 
will  confess  to  you  is  absurd  and  untrue.  We  all  under- 
stand that  in  newspaper  reports  all  sermons  are  eloquent 
and  impressive,  all  landlords  are  liberal,  all  county  mem- 
bers are  unweared  in  their  attention  to  their  duties,  all 
professors  are  learned,  all  divines  are  pious,  all  magis- 
trates are  worthy,  all  military  men  are  gallant,  all  royal 
dukes  are  illustrious.  We  all  understand  what  such 
statements  are  worth  ;  nor  does  any  man  but  the  most 
verdant  care  a  straw  for  the  critical  notices  of  the 
Wkistlehinkie  Gazette,  which  as.-ure  us  that  Mr.  Snooks, 
the  local  poet,  is  a  much  greater  man  than  Mr.  Tenny- 
son ;  and  that  Mr.  Green,  our  talented  young  townsman, 
has  already  surpassed  Turner  as  a  landscape-()ainter.  I 
don't  suppose  that  you  are  much  elevated  wlien  the 
Guardian  of  our  county  town  declares,  at  the  beginning 
of  a  month,  tliat  ^'  Fraser  holds  on  its  way  with  a  ringing 
and  jubilant  wildness  and  manliness  of  fierceness  and  ter- 
ror," —  whatever  all  that  may  mean,  which  I  confess  I 
don't  know.  But  the  Scotch  system  of  exaggerated  and 
(in  short)  false  declarations,  made  by  grave  divines  and 
high-spirited  gentlemen,  as  to  the  qualifications  of  Smith, 
Jones,  and  Kobinson,  ought  to  be  put  down.     It  deceives 


432      SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH   PECULIARITIES. 

and  inislfad.s:  it  is  calculated  and,  I  believe,  i?itended  to 
deceive  and  mislead.     I  feel  strongly  on  llie  subject,  for  I 
take  a  warm  interest  in  the  schools  of  this  parish  ;  and 
when  I  (list  came  here,  1  was  most  thoroughly  taken  in  by 
the  fhuniug  characters  which   several   tcacliers   brouglit, 
wlio  al'ierwards   proved  shamefully  incompetent.     A  lad 
of  very  dilicient  intellect  and  education,  and  quite  devoid 
of  conunon  sense,  applying  for  a  teacher's  place,  comes 
with  a  long   array  of  testimonials  from  clergymen  and 
professors,  which,  if  true,  would  prove  him  a  prodigy  of 
talent,  industry,  amiability,  and  all  other  virtues  under 
heaven.       An    extremely    bad    preacher    and    wretched 
scholar,   applying   for  a   living  (I   had    no   end   of  such 
applications  when  this   parish  was  vacatU),  brings   with 
him  testimonials  which  tend  to  show  that  the  human  race 
cannot  be  expected  to  produce  many  such  wonders  in  a 
single  century.      The  result  of  all   this   is,  that  written 
testimonials  now  mostly  go  for  nothing  —  at  least,  with 
people  of  any  experience.     They  are  sometimes  even  re- 
garded with  suspicion.     If  a  teacher  in  a  parish  school 
becomes  a  candidate  for  another  parish  school,  and  brings 
with  him  a  very  high  certificate  from  the  heritors  and 
clei-gyman  of  the  parish  where  he  is  at  present,  the  fear 
is  that  they  have  given  him   this  strong  reconmiendatioii 
in  order  to  get  rid  of  him. 

A  story  is  told  apropos  of  this.  A  teacher  came  to  the 
parish  of  X,  bringing  an  immensely  s:rong  certilicate  from 
the  parish  of  Y,  in  which  he  was  at  present  settled.  On 
the  strength  of  this  certificate,  the  heritors  of  X  elected 
him  to  their  vacant  school.  It  should  be  mentioned  that 
the  parishes  of  X  and  Y  are  many  miles  apart.  The 
teacher  began  his  work  at  X,  and  speedily  proved  worth 
nothing  —  a  lazy,  stupid,  useless  incubus  on  the  parish. 


SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES.      433 

One  of  the  heritors  of  X  met  a  heritor  of  Y,  and  inquired, 
with  some  indignation,  what  on  earth  the  heritors  of  Y 
meant  by  giving  such  a  flaming  certificate  to  an  utterly 
mcapable  teacher  ?  "  Why,"  said  Mr.  Y,  with  great  cool- 
ness, "  We  gave  that  certificate  to  get  you  to  take  him  off 
our  hands ;  and,  let  me  tell  you,  you  people  of  X  will 
have  to  give  him  a  far  higher  character  before  you  will 
get  rid  of  him  !  " 

I  do  not  vouch  for  the  story's  truth :  and  I  believe  that 
good-nature,  and  unwillingness  to  give  pain  by  a  refusal, 
are  the  origin  of  most  of  these  undeserved  panegyrics. 
When  a  poor  fellow  asks  you  to  give  a  certificate  of  fit- 
ness for  some  place  for  which  you  know  he  is  not  fit,  but 
which  he  has  yet  set  his  heart  on,  it  is  hard  to  say  no. 
The  temptation  is  strong  to  stretch  a  point  in  order  to  say 
a  good  word  for  him  ;  or  at  any  rate  to  write  a  few  sen- 
tences which,  without  meaning  anytliing,  sound  as  though 
they  meant  something  in  his  praise. 

And  now,  my  dear  fellow,  I  dare  say  you  are  wearied 
df  all  this  gossip  about  our  Scotch  Peculiarities.  I  have 
a  vast  deal  more  to  say,  but  I  think  I  had  better  stop  for 
the  present.  I  hope  soon  to  see  you  here  again.  It  is 
curious  how  arbitrarily  the  memory  singles  out  little  inci- 
dents and  keeps  them  vividly  alive,  when  worthier  things 
have  perished.  When  I  look  back  upon  your  late  visit 
to  us,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  the  thing  which  comes  out 
in  strongest  relief  is,  not  any  of  your  wise  and  witty  say- 
mgs,  not  any  of  your  philosophical  reflections,  not  any 
of  the  grand  or  beautiful  scenes  on  which  we  looked 
together.  None  of  these:  but  I  see  you  yet,  with  a 
doubtful  expression  on  your  usually  serene  face,  eating 
a  plate  of  oatmeal  porridge,  and  assuring  my  wife  that 
you  liked  it.  Well  I  knew  that  in  your  secret  soul  you 
23 


434      SOME  TALK  ABOUT   SCOTCH  PECULIARITIES. 

would  rather  have  read  the  very  dullest  article  in  the 
Balaam-box. 

Believe  me, 

Ever  your  sincere  friend, 

C.  A.  M 

Craiff-Houlakim, 
November  24th,  1856. 


CONCLUSION. 


HESE  were  the  kind  of  thoughts  that  passed 
through  my  mind  in  the  leisure  hours  of 
various  months  in  town.  Tlie  hours,  in- 
deed, in  which  I  have  been  free  from  the 
pressure  of  duty,  were  short ;  and  they  were  not  many  : 
yet,  by  regular  use,  one  may  turn  even  these  to  some  ac- 
count. All  kinds  of  hours,  morning  and  evening,  of  every 
day  of  the  week  except  Saturday  and  Sunday,  have  gone 
to  the  production  of  these  pages.  I  have  not  an  ever- 
green now,  though  I  have  planted  so  many  ;  nor  am  I  the 
possessor  of  a  single  tree  of  any  kind.  And  when  I  go 
and  visit  the  pleasant  homes  of  certain  friendly  country 
parsons,  I  feel  my  loss ;  and  I  sigh  a  little  for  the 
days  that  are  gone.  And  so  these  pages  have  not 
been  thought  out  amid  the  sunshiny  and  breezy  places 
where  I  wrote  certain  other  pages  which  possibly  you 
have  read.  Many  of  them  were  thought  out  by  a  city 
fireside ;  some  of  them  in  solitary  half-hour  walks  on 
quiet  winter  evenings  in  a  certain  broad  gas-lit  street,  re- 
markable for  that  absence  of  passers-by  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  many  of  the  streets  of  tiiis  beautiful  city.  But 
especially  I  remember  man}'  restful  hours,  happily  com- 
bining duty  with  leisure,  which  are  within  the  reach  of 
every  unambitious  Scotch  clergyman.     I  mean  the  hourd 


436  CONCLUSION. 

which  on  one  day  in  each  month  he  may  spend  in  attend- 
ing the  Pie.'ibytery  to  which  he  belongs.  The  Presby- 
tery, possibly  you  do  not  know,  is  a  court  of  the  Scotch 
Church ;  consisting  of  the  clergymen  of  a  number  of 
adjoining  parishes,  witli  a  lay  member  from  each  parish 
besides.  This  court  exercises  over  a  certain  district  of 
country  the  authority  which  in  England  is  exercised  by 
a  Bishop.  It  is  the  duty  of  every  member  to  be  pres- 
ent :  so  that  while  attending  its  sittings  you  have  a  pleas- 
ant sense  that  you  are  in  the  way  of  your  duty.  The 
business  of  this  Ecclesiastical  Court  is  of  deep  interest 
to  those  who  feel  a  deep  interest  in  it.  And  a  weighty 
responsibility  rests  with  those  members  of  it  whose  ex- 
perience and  administrative  ability  are  such  as  entitle 
them  and  fit  them  to  lead  their  brethren.  But  a  good 
many  of  the  clergy,  especially  of  the  younger  clergy, 
have  no  vocation  that  way :  and  the  very  eloquent  and 
remarkably  long  speeches  which  are  often  made,  would 
be  somewhat  wearisome  if  you  tried  to  listen  to  them. 
But  if  you  do  not  try  to  listen  to  them,  unless  at  some 
specially  interesting  juncture,  or  when  some  one  is  speak- 
ing whose  words  carry  special  weight,  you  may  have 
many  hours  of  leisure  there  ;  and  think  of  material  for 
various  chapters  like  those  you  have  been  reading.  I 
have  found  my  hours  at  the  Presbytery  very  favorable  to 
contemplation,  as  well  as  a  delightful  rest  to  body  and 
mind.  You  are  in  the  path  of  duty  :  and  yet  you  feel 
that  your  insignificance  makes  your  responsibility  quite 
inappreciable.  You  do  your  work,  we  may  hope,  as  a 
parish  clergyman,  diligently  and  not  unsuccessfully.  But 
as  an  ecclesiastical  lawyer  and  legislator,  in  all  probabil- 
ity, your  influence  is  very  properly  at  zero.  You  have 
entire  confidence  that  the  affairs  of  the  district  are  being 


CONCLUSION.  437 

managed  by  wise  and  good  men,  who  are  your  seniors  in 
age  and  your  superiors  in  wisdom.  So  you  may  enjoy 
a  day  of  rest :  and  of  rest  happily  combined  with  duty. 
I  have  a  very  great  veneration  and  affection  for  the 
Church  of  England  :  but  I  do  not  think  that  grand  Estab- 
lishment affords  her  clergy  any  season,  recurring  regularly 
and  not  unfrequently,  during  which  they  may  feel  that 
they  are  attending  to  their  clerical  duty,  while  yet  they 
are  quite  free  from  any  sense  of  responsibility,  and  from 
any  feeling  that  they  are  doing  anything  whatever. 

And  so  I  commend  these  chapters  to  the  kindly  reader 
hoping  that  they  are  not  the  last. 


THE   KND. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


-8,'49(B5573)444 


PR 

Ul6l 

B2iia 


